1. GUY WALKS INTO A BAR [If this is Hell, he thinks, he could do worse. The initial shock took a lot out of him; when you're pissed off and terrified and ready to fight, but there's nothing to fight, and nowhere to run, a man can end up paralyzed. Boyd Crowder is not the paralysis type. He gets his bearings, and figures that if nothing else there's always a place one can rely on to get the lay of the land, a feel for the natives, and an insider sense of what's going on around these parts:
The nearest establishment serving hard liquor.
He finds one; asks for whiskey, neat, without specifying a brand, just to see what they'll serve him up by default. Wild Turkey. Now, either that's a hell of a guess, or maybe there's a touch of heaven in this place after all.]
2. THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
[Got-damn.
This is the kind of cold that doesn't belong in Kentucky, even way up in the hills. Hell, it's colder than the desert at midnight, which is damn cold, colder than he ever would have guessed until he felt it himself. And yeah, maybe someone could point out that he's lucky he's got a nice little box of matches in case he needs to start a fire, but to that he'd point out that three goddamn matches ain't no good to nobody if he's minutes away from freezing to death. It's not that bad yet. But he could still say it.
Four or more matches would put him in a better spot. That's just basic arithmetic. Since he's got nothing else on his immediate person that would serve as a resource in what threatens to be increasingly sub-zero weather, he figures if he plays his cards right, he can double his assets and see about the next step from there.]
Excuse me, friend. I've been havin' some trouble gettin' my hands on these handy little matches that seem to be turnin' up for many luckier souls than myself. Any chance you could spare a couple, maybe save a poor man like yours truly from losin' the tips of my fingers to frostbite?
3. BULLETVILLE [Boyd sure as hell knows what it feels like, being followed. Even when the son of a bitch in question happens to be good at it, there's just a sensation you can't shake, the eyes on the back of your neck. Any Crowder worth his salt can pick up on a tail and shake it before bringing it anywhere important, or better yet, catch it and make 'em think twice about not minding their own business. But no matter what tricks he uses, no matter how many times he doubles back or takes a sudden turn, he can't figure out what in the god damn hell is riding him so closely that he can practically feel it breathing.
Until turning a corner suddenly puts him in the middle of the woods, surrounded by dry leaves and half-dead trees and empty tents and -- bodies, swinging, strung up, drained of blood. Bullet holes. Boyd cries out in shock, nearly falling back, feeling his shoulder hit a building hard -- and then it's gone, just as quick as that shock of pain. He stands in the snow gasping, wide-eyed. Nothing but the buildings and the shadows around him.
Boyd Crowder | Justified
[If this is Hell, he thinks, he could do worse. The initial shock took a lot out of him; when you're pissed off and terrified and ready to fight, but there's nothing to fight, and nowhere to run, a man can end up paralyzed. Boyd Crowder is not the paralysis type. He gets his bearings, and figures that if nothing else there's always a place one can rely on to get the lay of the land, a feel for the natives, and an insider sense of what's going on around these parts:
The nearest establishment serving hard liquor.
He finds one; asks for whiskey, neat, without specifying a brand, just to see what they'll serve him up by default. Wild Turkey. Now, either that's a hell of a guess, or maybe there's a touch of heaven in this place after all.]
2. THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
[Got-damn.
This is the kind of cold that doesn't belong in Kentucky, even way up in the hills. Hell, it's colder than the desert at midnight, which is damn cold, colder than he ever would have guessed until he felt it himself. And yeah, maybe someone could point out that he's lucky he's got a nice little box of matches in case he needs to start a fire, but to that he'd point out that three goddamn matches ain't no good to nobody if he's minutes away from freezing to death. It's not that bad yet. But he could still say it.
Four or more matches would put him in a better spot. That's just basic arithmetic. Since he's got nothing else on his immediate person that would serve as a resource in what threatens to be increasingly sub-zero weather, he figures if he plays his cards right, he can double his assets and see about the next step from there.]
Excuse me, friend. I've been havin' some trouble gettin' my hands on these handy little matches that seem to be turnin' up for many luckier souls than myself. Any chance you could spare a couple, maybe save a poor man like yours truly from losin' the tips of my fingers to frostbite?
3. BULLETVILLE
[Boyd sure as hell knows what it feels like, being followed. Even when the son of a bitch in question happens to be good at it, there's just a sensation you can't shake, the eyes on the back of your neck. Any Crowder worth his salt can pick up on a tail and shake it before bringing it anywhere important, or better yet, catch it and make 'em think twice about not minding their own business. But no matter what tricks he uses, no matter how many times he doubles back or takes a sudden turn, he can't figure out what in the god damn hell is riding him so closely that he can practically feel it breathing.
Until turning a corner suddenly puts him in the middle of the woods, surrounded by dry leaves and half-dead trees and empty tents and -- bodies, swinging, strung up, drained of blood. Bullet holes. Boyd cries out in shock, nearly falling back, feeling his shoulder hit a building hard -- and then it's gone, just as quick as that shock of pain. He stands in the snow gasping, wide-eyed. Nothing but the buildings and the shadows around him.
Hell. He needs another goddamn drink.]