"Is that how you treat friends who buy you drinks?"

Grumble grumble.

"...where'd you get your gun?"

"It was a gift from my twin."

"You don't have a" (hic) "twin."

"Yeah I do. Identical, too. His hair's platinum blond, though."

"Hmm." He drinks some more water. "What's his name? S?"

"Nai."

"...huh."

"Your turn. What's your story?"

"Don't got one. Lost it with my name."

"I think you're lying."

"An' I think you should mind your damn business."

"Whiskey? On the rocks?"

"...you drive a hard bargain, friend."

"Tell me one story and I'll get you that drink."

"There was a man. He was loved by ev'ryone, he had ev'rything. Money, looks, girls. Best gunslinger 'round these parts, an' a hero to boot. Protected ev'ryone.

"Then one day there was an accident. Or maybe it was pre, per, p—" He furrows his eyebrows then tries enunciating it slowly. "Pre-me-di-ta-ted. Dunno. No one knows. But breaks his fingers. All of 'em. An' he can't gunsling anymore. An' now he's sad and drunk an' alone."

"Your fingers aren't broken."

"Told you one story, not my story," he replies, grinning toothily.

"Touché and well-played. Finish that water and go pee and I'll get you that whiskey."

"Ha! It worked." He downs the rest of the water like it's alcohol and then gets up and staggers towards the bathroom—

    "Outside! I ain't having you piss all over my bathrooms again."

—staggers outside.

(The man's fingers aren't broken but they are very calloused, Zash noted. Calloused in a pretty specific way.)

(And people are very bad at inventing new stories from nothing, especially when they're drunk.)

(Curious.)

"Well I'm not going back on my word. Hilda, beautiful Hilda, don't make a liar out of me?"

"Pretty words from a pretty boy but I need to see some coin."

He has coin. He is not a liar.

Then she can get him his whiskey, sure.

"He's not worth it, you know," says a man sitting at a nearby table, leaning over to Zash. "Lost cause."