The drunken Sheriff of Alfalfa Town heard the impatient noises of his old wife and the banging of pots and pans in his ears. He opened his hazy sleepy eyes, reached out and grabbed a corner of the curtain and pulled it. The sky outside the room was still extremely dark. He didn't know if it was morning before dawn or if it was already dark.
When his throat was dry, it was like something was tearing at his throat. He grunted twice uncomfortably, sat up from the bed and put on his slippers. He turned on a dim bedside lamp and looked down at the clock on the bedside table. It was now twelve o'clock in the evening. After watching it for about twenty seconds, he picked up the clock and wound it up. The clock once again performed its duty by ticking.
Thirst and headache, these are the disadvantages of cheap moonshine. He stood up with his hands on the bed, walked to the table, picked up the cup and raised his head, but did not pour out even a drop of water. There was something irritable in his gray eyes. The old wife's nagging and dissatisfied complaints in his ears made his head hurt even more. The sound of the pots and pots clashing was simply unbearable. Panting heavily, he grabbed the shotgun hanging crosswise on the wall beside the bed and rushed out of the bedroom.
They were not decorations, it was just that the owner of the room treated the two shotguns as decorations.
kitchen
No!
bathroom
No!
When the sergeant walked to the living room, he saw a figure standing in the corner. He pulled the trigger without hesitation. The bullet flew out of the muzzle of the gun while spinning and whistling, and at the same time, it also caused a small piece of white mist. With a bang, something was shattered, and the figure slowly slid against the wall and onto the floor. The nagging and complaining in his ears disappeared completely in an instant, and the whole person seemed to have returned to peace.
The sergeant staggered over and spoke some incomprehensible words subconsciously. He walked to the figure and squatted down, touched the bullet-torn floor, and looked elsewhere with vigilance.
"I will find you!", the Sheriff coughed, "I swear!"
He walked to the kitchen, held the faucet in his mouth and turned on the switch. A stream of water with a faint fishy smell poured into his mouth. He sucked it greedily until he was full, then cursed and returned to the bedroom to drink himself again. Once he threw it on the bed and fell into a deep sleep.
The moonlight shines in through the window. On the cabinet in the living room, there is a very gentle-looking woman in a black and white photo frame, smiling at everyone who looks at her.
Early the next morning, the curtains he pulled open in the middle of the night could not block the passionate power of the sun. In the dazzling light, the police chief raised his hand to block the sun and slowly woke up. His mind went blank, he glanced at the shotgun in his hand, turned around and hung it on the bedside.
He was seriously ill, but only a few people knew about it. Many people thought he was just a drunkard who would never wake up. But only those who know him well know that he just uses alcohol as a drug.
He rubbed his face, and his cheeks were sore from the big eyes. He walked to the mirror in the closet expressionlessly, put on the police uniform that represented justice and justice very seriously, put on the police badge, and said After giving a very standard salute in the mirror, he left the bedroom and left the house.
Before leaving home, he didn't forget to take a bottle of low-alcohol wine from the table. It's the kind of home-brewed wine. It has a higher alcohol content than ordinary low-alcohol wine and a lower alcohol content than those produced by big manufacturers. .
He roughly bit open the lid and took a big gulp. Just as he was about to go out, he was squeezed back.
"Look, who is this, Mr. Kesma!", the police chief emphasized a bit too much, and the surprise in his eyes flashed away, replaced by a deep defensiveness.
Every muscle in Mr. Kesma's stern and serious face was like an artist's sculpture, and not even a slight tremor occurred. He took off his round hat and put it on the hanger. He looked around the room and shook his head. He walked to the dirty wicker chair in the living room and overturned everything to the ground before sitting down. Go up.
"What are you doing here?" The police chief put the wine back on the table and sat opposite Mr. Kesma with a gloomy expression. "Have you forgotten the agreement between us? At this critical moment, none of us will take the initiative to contact others!”
It was incredible that Mr. Kesma shrugged his shoulders, but even more incredible was that he called out a name that did not exist in the town, "Walt..."
"Shut up, that's not my name!" The angry sergeant had already made an offensive gesture, but after seeing Mr. Kesma's calm eyes, his whole body stiffened and he sat back. "No, I am not Walt, there is no such person, please call my name 'Johnson', Mr. Kesma!"
Mr. Kesma escaped from his pocket and took out a delicate metal box, then took out two cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and threw the other to "Johnson." He took out an exquisite sterling silver lighter, lit a cigarette for himself, then raised his chin slightly and looked at Johnson sternly. A stranger might be irritated by Mr. Kesma's attitude at this time, or at least not too happy. But Johnson knew it was Mr. Kesma's way of expressing his vanity.
He has been like this since decades ago, showing off everything he owns in this annoying way!
"I know you have a good son, and the whole town knows it, but so what?" Johnson took the lighter from Mr. Kesma's hand, lit a cigarette for himself, took a deep breath, and played with it. sterling silver lighter, "This has nothing to do with me. Listen, I don't want to get into trouble, but I don't want to be in trouble either. Do you understand?"
Mr. Kesma blew out a light smoke and flicked the ashes. The snow-white ashes fell to the ground. After the impact, they broke into several pieces, and then the wind from the door blew them to the ground. He said calmly and indifferently as before: "We are friends!"
When Mr. Kesma said these words, Sheriff Johnson's body trembled visibly. This sentence once became people's nightmare, and often made those who heard it unable to sleep peacefully. But it is obvious that today he is not listening to this sentence or voice from a supreme perspective as a "just" party.
There was a struggle in his eyes, the muscles on his cheeks were shaking frequently, sweat was flowing down his hair, his lips were trembling and he could no longer hold the cigarette, and half of the cigarette fell gently to the ground.
"What do you want from me?"
(End of chapter)