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Deadwood sure loved their parties.
Instigation mused as he peered out the window into a bustling street full of Mobians, hooting and hollering as they merrily danced the night away. Judging by the music, he could tell there had to have been a street band or two playing somewhere within the crowd. Despite the saloon he was currently in being across that exact street, he heard everything as clearly as he would if he were right in the center of the madness.
To Deadwood, it was a treasured routine: residents spent the day working hard, and at night, they rewarded themselves by partying hard and drinking even harder. It was what the town was built on, and Instigation saw no need to get himself involved. Most of the time.
This town was a dangerous place. Crooks and criminals lurked in every street corner, blending in with the innocent and waiting to strike. For every starving artist trying to get by, there seemed to be at least a dozen more con men wanting to make a quick buck with the lowest amount of effort they could get away with. And during these parties, they may as well have been wolves let into a pen full of sheep.
That’s why this town needed people like Instigation. If he could keep just one poor sucker from getting their pockets sucked dry by some smooth-talking sleaze, he would consider it a job well done. But alas, a sheriff’s work is never truly finished.
Infatuation interrupted his “brooding,” as she so lovingly called it, by placing a cocktail glass at her side of their shared table. The drink inside was a pretty red, and a toothpick skewering a raspberry and a small apple slice rested on top.
“You just gonna sit there and stare all night?” Infatuation asked as she sat across from him.
Instigation spared her a single glance before answering, “Have to.”
He could hear her methodically tapping a nail against her glass, and imagined how she must have been staring him down at that very moment.
“At least let me make you something for the road,” she offered, although the telltale lilt in her voice indicated that Instigation didn’t have much of a say in the matter.
He sighed, “Get me a Manhattan.”
Infatuation beamed and slid out of her seat to sashay towards the bar top, her apron flowing in time with every step she took.
“Virgin,” Instigation clarified while she was halfway. She turned to look at him with a sour expression, but resumed her venture shortly.
It was no secret that Infatuation made some of the best drinks in Deadwood. She knew spirits and cocktails like a second language, a source of great pride for her, and rumor had it she could outdrink even the most seasoned professionals. Whenever asked about these rumors, her response always came in the form of a smile and the same phrase: A magician never reveals her secrets.
Infatuation knew how Instigation tended to turn his nose up at alcohol. Why even bother going to a saloon if you didn’t intend on getting more than a little tipsy, she always said. Instigation never had an answer for her.
The sound of heels clacking against polished wood marked Infatuation’s return, “I know you didn’t ask for it on the rocks, but…” She placed a small glass in front of him.
As quickly as it had been put down, the drink was picked up for a quick swig. Cold. Went down smooth. Not bad at all. “You talk to him recently?”
“Who, dreamboy?”
Instigation felt a bitter taste well up on his tongue, “Yes.”
Infatuation touched the rim of her glass to her lips and tilted, “I’ve seen him around.”
“Anything happen?”
She chuckled, a luscious contralto straight from her chest, “A lady mustn't kiss and tell.”
Instigation said nothing, taking another sip of his drink. The parade was steadily moving further away from the saloon, in the direction of the nearby casino. Of course that’s where these people are headed.
“C’mon, don’t be like that now,” Infatuation insisted, twirling the contents of her drink in her glass, “You know I’m kidding with you. We just exchanged some hellos, that’s all.”
Infatuation’s words weren’t all that relieving.
Instigation was not at all pleased to find out that Fixation had come back to town. Of course, he still had yet to see the former actor in the flesh, but Instigation was more than content with keeping it that way. According to Infatuation apparently, he seemed to be doing well for himself.
Fixation was not his only name. They called him the Muse, the Siren of Deadwood, the Prettiest Pair of Eyes in the West. Anyone who was fortunate enough to see him at the peak of his career would tell you that he had a way to him, that Fixation. Each performance was a new magical spell that he cast upon the audience, and would linger even hours after you stepped out of the theatre. He commanded the piano keys and guitar strings to move with him, he bewitched the limelight to look his way, the whole stage may as well have belonged to him.
Instigation did not care much for this new face on the posters. A pretty face looking to make it big - as if he hadn’t read the opening lines of this script hundreds of times before. It was only a matter of time before he had to send him packing, really. He just wasn’t expecting him to come back, much less willingly.
“He’s really not that bad,” Infatuation commented.
“You don’t know him.”
“Well, I certainly know him better than I did five months ago.”
“Still not much.”
“Aren’t you even a little bit interested?” Infatuation leaned forward, elbows against the table, “Haven’t all the whisperings made you curious as to what he’s like?”
“I know what he’s like, all right,” Instigation’s drink was now empty, and rested on the table while the ice in it slowly melted. “He’s got a silver tongue-”
“And an intoxicating voice.”
“He’s no better than any other debauchee in this town-”
“And proper dashing.”
“And if he thinks he can come back up here and do whatever he damn well pleases, he’s got another thing coming!”
“Sure, sure…” Infatuation waved him off as she cleared their glasses. “You know, you could afford to live it up with the rest of us every once in a while.”
“Can’t. I’m all this town has. One off-day and there’s nothing stopping it from becoming an overnight cesspit. That’s why I do what I do - crime don’t sleep, so I won’t either.”
Although his eyes are on the window, Instigation can see the way Infatuation’s eyes roll at his words before heading to the back bar to put their glasses away.
For a few seconds, there wasn’t a single noise in the empty saloon. You wouldn’t believe it was still open if you walked in. The parade was long gone at this point, nothing more than a distant echo distorted by the glass. Instigation knew he couldn’t stay for much longer.
“Next time you see him,” Instigation told Infatuation when he saw her emerge from the counters, “You tell him that if he’s got any problem with me, he can come and talk to me about it.”
Infatuation fixed him with a slick expression (was she getting all this from that washed-up actor?), and cooly told him, “No need. He’ll come to you.”
Instigation planned to spend the rest of the night filing paperwork to the tune of celebration somehow still going on outside. His usual bird’s eye view of the town was decorated with string lights that he doesn’t recall being there before (then again, given how this town was, they could have been up since last week). Mobians linked arms and swung each other around into the arms of other Mobians. If they weren’t interested in dancing, they piled into the casino in droves.
How these people could stand to do this every night was beyond him. To each their own, he begrudgingly supposed.
Instigation was in the middle of looking over some kind of appeal (he gets calls for appeals so often they all tend to blend together) when a knock on his office door derailed his train of thought.
Without looking up from his work, he called out, “Come in.”
The large door opened just enough to allow Fodder to poke her head into the room. She held the door open with one hand while carrying a stack of papers, presumably articles she had written, in her other arm.
“Someone’s here to see you, sheriff,” the journalist informed him.
All interest Instigation might have had in that appeal went by the wayside in an instant.
“Right now?” He inquired.
“Yes, right now. Says he’s got some “business” he’d like to talk over with you.”
“...Send him in.”
At his command, Fodder retreated through the door to fetch Instigation’s mysterious visitor.
Instigation was used to receiving clients minutes before the courthouse closed for the day. He was used to having angry defendants barge into his office at the break of dawn to demand retrials. This never happened. Not even once. Something wicked had to be afoot.
When the door opened again, Instigation was sat straight, with his head held high and hands neatly folded over each other. Any papers he had been working on were pushed to the side in a pile. His breaths came steady and composed; the slow rise and fall of his chest was barely noticeable.
Yet, even with all the preparation in the world, no one’s ever ready to meet the devil head on.
Instigation heard who it was in the sickeningly familiar jingle of spurs that accompanied heavy bootsteps. God, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that sound. It stood out, demanded immediate attention; it was the dimming of the lights signaling that the show was about to begin. He had no reaction when the smell of secondhand smoke reached his nose, or when he registered the glimmer of bright red jewelry flaunting their presence to him from under a black and red hat.
The Muse, the Siren of Deadwood, the Prettiest Pair of Eyes in the West, let a lit cigarette hang lazily between two fingers. Somehow, that bothered Instigation more than anything else.
“You shouldn’t smoke in here.”
Instigation feels how his eyes bore into him. From the brim of his hat, he sees the hedgehog put the cigarette to his lips, inhale, and blow the smoke out an open window.
It was like everything Fixation did was designed to get a rise out of him. The way he walked in here like he owned the place, the lengthy show he made of enjoying his cigarette, the haughty look he shot at him as he let the smoke billow out the window and into the air - all of it was so charged, so provocative, and all directed towards him.
Instigation wanted to throw up.
“I see you haven’t changed much,” Fixation’s voice rang throughout the room when he spoke.
“Neither have you,” Instigation’s tone held no emotion.
“I really missed this place, y’know. Never realized how much I liked it here ‘til after I left. Sure, I don’t act anymore. I think I’ve had more than my fair share of that,” Fixation let out a bitter laugh, “But I do perform gigs at a couple saloons. You can catch me at the Gunslinger about every other night. Of course, you don’t drink, do you?”
Instigation stayed quiet as Fixation continued to close in on him.
“It’s okay if you don’t,” Fixation shook some ash from off his cigarette, “I don’t judge.”
“I thought we had some business to discuss.”
“Oh, we do. Of the unfinished variety.”
“It ain’t wise to pick a fight with the law, boy,” Instigation loomed over his desk, his tone a warning.
Fixation gazed down at him with bemusement in his eyes, “I’m not looking to pick a thing with you, your honor. Just checking in.”
“Is that right? I’ll have you know I have half a mind to kick your ass back to the curb if I even sniff you’re up to something, so I suggest you fix that attitude before I-”
“Before you what?” Fixation’s cut-off was sharp yet swift, and marked a notable shift in his demeanor. His usual playful edge had vanished, leaving something much more staid in its wake. “Before you chase me out of town again? Is that what you’ll do? Tell another lie, lead another mob, hunt me down?”
Fixation now stood directly in front of the desk, taking up Instigation’s entire field of vision. The hedgehog planted his hands firm against the desk and leaned over him, his frame casting a dark shadow over where he sat.
“Are you gonna call me a criminal again?” Fixation emphasized his question with a small hum from the back of his throat. ”What’cha gonna do, huh? What’cha gonna do?”
If silence could kill, they’d both be dead men. They stared each other down for what felt like hours. In a way, Instigation missed this side of him. He hated this new Fixation, cocky and suave, so sure of himself. He wanted the Fixation that bit back, the one that glared up at him in his podium with desperate indignation, the Fixation he had power over.
Had a wolfish smile not slowly graced Fixation’s features, reaching beyond his eyes and seeming to spread across his very being, the silence probably would have lasted forever. The laugh that followed almost caused him to lose his balance. Instigation, meanwhile, sat stone cold in his chair.
“But no hard feelings, yeah? It’s all water under the bridge now, we’re good,” Just like that, all the color returned to Fixation’s voice as if it never left. He backed away from Instigation’s desk, rhythmically walking backwards towards the door.
With zero effort, he flung the door open wide, but stuck out a boot to catch the door to catch it before it shut.
“Just think of me every once in a while, won’t you?”
Fixation turned to Instigation as he spoke. Instigation doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but whatever it is, he doesn’t give it to him. Something tells him that Fixation saw this coming.
“You have a fabulous night, your honor.”
He smiles. He steps forward. Then he’s gone.