Do What You Do Best

Massive shoulders hunching, Randon leaned over his as of yet untouched tenth shot. The preacher leaned back to see around his erstwhile companion’s bulk, eyeing with morbid curiosity the stranger’s approach toward Sid.

“Don’t watch,” Randon chided.

The preacher snapped back toward the bar, “What is he…”

“You don’t want to know.”

“But is it…”

“Yer lane, rev. Other team.”

“Should we…”

“Right, we should,” Randon declared before tossing back the final vial of burning liquid, “So, I’m going back upstairs. One or two of ‘em I ain’t yet…”

“Not what I meant, son.”

Turning away from the slowly developing scene in the corner, Randon faced the holy man, “I ain’t yer son, and I ain’t callin ya padre.”

“You’ve confused my denomination.”

“But not yer intent. Certain laws, certain…entanglements only allow fer so much meddlin’. Nothin’ to do.” Randon spared a glance over his shoulder, “Not fer Sid. Not fer me.” Feet heavier than usual, he tromped upstairs, leaving the preacher to pray.

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