The bar girl began aggressively attacking the stain on his pants.
"I'm sorry, partner," she was telling him. "I'll get you another glass…"
That's when Hunter finally patted himself down — and much to his surprise, found his body free of bullet holes.
"Can you make it a whiskey?" he asked her with a croak.
"Anything for you, honey."
"How about a double then…"
She departed into the blur. Hunter leaned back and prayed that she would return with something stronger than colored water.
His body was still shaking, his brain felt like it was pounding its way out of his skull. He checked his body again. No blood. No wounds. No perforations anywhere. Just some wine stains.
He finally slumped back in his chair and let out a long, low whistle of relief. That had been too freaking scary.
But where the hell was he now? If there had been a sign at the last ticket booth announcing the next ride, he'd missed it during what he thought were the last few moments of his life. So he had not even a hint of his new reality. But soon enough, he began spotting clues.
He was back in his combat suit, and he had his old flight boots on again. But his crash helmet was hanging off the back of his chair. He felt another kind of hat on his head. He took it off and studied it. It was big and broad with its rim turned up in either side. He'd seen one of these before somewhere. He looked at the inside label. It read, Made in Texas. 10 Gallon — Wide Band. Everyone around him was wearing the same kind of hat.
He was in a saloon. A huge one. His table was just one of 200 or more. The bar itself seemed to stretch off into infinity. It was crowded with rowdy drinkers dressed in dirty pants, muddy boots, and long overcoats he knew were called dusters. Across from the bar was a stage. Several girls not unlike the one who'd just cleaned him up were doing a hideous dance that most closely resembled the odd ballet the girls in front of Ping's Palace had been performing.
The music was coming from an ancient upright piano jammed into the corner of the stage. The man playing it looked drunker than the patrons at the bar. He also had an arrow sticking right through his derby hat. If it was real, then it was probably sticking right through his skull, too. But this didn't seem to have any effect on his playing. It was awful, but earnest. Strangely, right above his piano was a huge red star.
The saloon hall girl returned to Hunter's table. "Sorry sir, but we are out of whiskey," she said. "Would you like a glass of vodka instead?"
She put the drink in front of him before he could even reply. He drank it greedily. It looked like water, but it tasted like gasoline, burning his gullet all the way down. At last! Real booze!
The vodka made him relax. His head cleared enough for him to think a bit more rationally. He'd just made his escape in the nick of time from the Alien Mystery World. He shook off any thoughts of what might have happened if he hadn't made it into the ticket booth when he did. He took another long slug of the vodka, finishing the glass. He signaled the attentive bar girl for another. The music began to rise again. The patrons along the rail were becoming more rowdy. The girls on the stage continued dancing very provocatively. His second drink arrived. Hunter downed it on one gulp. He asked for a third.
What was this place? It was certainly more inviting than the brutally hot desert or a reprise of World War Three. It was definitely an homage of some sort to the ancient American West. Yet Russian influences were everywhere. From the big red star over the piano to another, even larger one hanging over the stage, to the glorious vodka he was pouring down his throat.
The Old West and Mother Russia?
It made for a very strange combination.
The piano player ended one song and immediately went into another. Starting down in the low notes, he began slowly working his way up the scale, intent on pounding the keys to death. Hunter's third vodka arrived. Again he downed it in one gulp. Before he even put the empty glass down on the table, he was signaling for another.
The whole place had turned its attention to the stage. It had gone dark, a lone dancer appearing in place of the small troupe who'd been previously denting the floorboards. Having walked out from behind a curtain, this dancer was now moving gracefully to center stage. The honky-tonk piano continued its slow buildup. The crowd shuddered with anticipation. The dancer was not in the spotlight, rather she looked like a shadow, standing very still. The music built further, approaching its climax. This woman was going to sing, Hunter thought. And no doubt her voice will sound as bad as the rest of the entertainment in this place.
But just as the piano reached its peak, the woman opened not her mouth, but the front buttons of her dress. The crowd let out a soft "Ooooooh…" Hunter heard himself gasp. The dancer let the top of the dress drop from her shoulders. Another gasp went through the crowd. Suddenly, she was nearly topless. In the bare red shadow, Hunter could see her perfectly formed breasts.
"Damn…" he whispered.
She began swaying to the music, her skirt suddenly gone, too. She had a lovely form from top to bottom. Not buxom, but just right. Her long hair flung back in curls. Garters. High button shoes. Hunter's fourth drink arrived, and he felt his hand shake as he picked it up. What the hell did they call this ride?
A combination of the vodka and testosterone started to take effect. He began to pant. Then, finally, a spotlight illuminated the dancer's face.
Hunter nearly fell off his chair.
Is that Annie?
The saloon hall girl returned at a very inopportune time, and for once she was not bearing another drink for Hunter. Instead, she bent down and whispered in his ear, "I understand you're looking for the Mad Russian?"
Hunter was so close to being in a frenzy, he didn't hear her. She repeated the question.
Only then did he snap out of it. With one eye trying to keep track of this amazing thing happening onstage, he turned to the bar girl and said, "Yes, definitely."
"Then he'll see you now," she replied.
Suddenly she had Hunter's undivided attention. "He's here?"
"In his office out back," she said. "He's waiting for you."
Hunter froze. He wanted oh so much to watch this demonstration onstage. What is Annie doing here?
But he couldn't pass up this opportunity to finally meet his quarry.
He went with the waitress.
She led him out of the bar area, through a curtain, and into a dark hallway. They walked for what seemed like forever. The oil lamps in the hall started flickering at one point. Not just a little drunk, Hunter started stumbling, nearly losing sight of the saloon hall girl.
Finally they reached a door with a sign that read simply, Trail Boss.
She turned, smiled, and nodded toward the door.
"He's in there," she said. "Good luck."
Hunter staggered in. The room was dark. A log was burning in the fireplace. Two walls were lined with ornamental swords. Ancient muskets adorned another. Bull-whips, spurs, and several lassos were also on display.
At the far end of the room there was a huge, carved wood desk sitting on an elevated platform about a foot off the floor. There was a man sitting behind this desk, almost totally hidden in shadow. His back was turned to Hunter.
It was strange, because Hunter could still hear the piano music. And he was still imagining what was going on, back on that stage and wondering why Annie had shown up inside this attraction, too. To what purpose was she here? Maybe the guy behind the desk would have the answer to that question — along with a few million more.