Spy Tugs
Spy Tugs Pic(s)
The oppressive Georgia sun beat down upon the dusty town of Jericho, baking the cracked asphalt of its single main street into a shimmering mirage. A lone tumbleweed, brittle and gray, cartwheeled lazily past the silent storefronts, its journey unimpeded by any sign of life. Inside the dim, wood-paneled saloon, the air was thick with the scent of stale beer and old regrets, a palpable weight that settled on everything. At a corner table, a man known only as Silas sat perfectly still, his weathered Stetson pulled low over his eyes, hiding their cold calculation. He was waiting for a man who was late, a man who had foolishly believed a handshake deal could be broken without consequence. The slow, rhythmic creak of the ceiling fan was the only sound, marking the passage of time with agonizing slowness. Suddenly, the batwing doors swung inward, framing a nervous figure silhouetted against the blinding white light of the afternoon. Silas didn't move a muscle, but his right hand slowly curled into a tight fist on the tabletop, the leather of his glove groaning in protest. The latecomer approached with hesitant steps, his boots scuffing softly on the sawdust-covered floor, his apology already dying in his throat. The ensuing silence was heavier than any shouted threat, a quiet promise of the inevitable reckoning that was about to unfold.
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