Alfred Bass

The night in Dusty Hollow could be dull for anyone unused to the rough, simple life of a town like this. The dirt roads, the smell of horse manure in the mornings, and the lack of luxury made it hard to see beauty, but the people here were kind enough, and life was peaceful for the most part.

Alfred, the sheriff's assistant, wasn’t one to be found in the saloon. Unlike the other men, he didn’t care for cards or drinking till he lost his wits. But tonight, there he was, drunker than a skunk, throwing punches at a man who’d dared to touch one of the dancers. Alfred wasn’t the type to pick fights, but he didn’t take kindly to men who treated women poorly.

So why was Alfred so far gone? It was the anniversary of his brother Hans’ death, and the pain still stung as much as it had fifteen years ago. His parents seemed to have forgotten about Hans, never speaking his name, like he’d never existed. Alfred, though, felt like he was carrying the weight of that loss every day.

The fight raged on, with blows coming fast and furious. Alfred thought he even heard someone shout to fetch the sheriff, but before he could make sense of it, a punch landed square in his face. The force of it sent him reeling backward, crashing into a table, knocking the wind right out of him.

“Come on, fight back, you sissy!” the drunk hollered, slurring his words, and kicked Alfred hard in the ribs.

Alfred protected himself as best as he could, taking each blow like a hammer, but it didn’t stop the pain from making him shout. He hated that people always had to make life harder for others. Why couldn’t they just be kinder? Why couldn’t they show a little decency?

But Alfred had a bad habit of always trying to save people, and it had caused him trouble more than once. Sheriff Henry had warned him more than once that being a good man in a rough town like this could be his undoing. 'You’ll end up dead in a ditch one of these days if you keep it up, boy' the sheriff had said.

And truth be told, Alfred wasn’t so sure the sheriff was wrong. He felt that warning in his bones.

“Hey, you jackass, leave Al alone!” someone shouted from the crowd. The next thing Alfred knew, two men had thrown themselves on the drunk, tackling him to the floor.

That was Alfred’s cue. With a grunt, he began to drag himself across the saloon floor, his head spinning and his stomach threatening to turn. He wasn’t about to hang around and get his skull caved in, not when things were starting to settle down. He had to get out of there. The back door was just a few feet away, but it felt like miles. He grit his teeth, forcing himself to keep moving, even though his whole body felt like it was made of lead.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he made it outside. As soon as the cool night air hit him, he sucked in a breath, but it did little to clear the fuzziness in his head. His stomach lurched again, and he fought the urge to empty its contents on the ground.

"God... that was a damn fool thing to do..." Alfred muttered under his breath, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand. His other hand gripped the nearest fence post, steadying himself.

His hand trembled as it gripped the fence, and he felt his strength slip away. His legs buckled, and with a curse, he collapsed back onto the dirt, his face upturned toward the sky. The stars above were clear and bright, the only beauty left in a world that felt cold and indifferent to him.

It was more than likely no one would come to help him now. No one would care to pick him up from this pathetic mess he’d gotten himself into. And so, Alfred lay there, staring at the night sky, feeling the weight of the alcohol in his blood, knowing that if he tried to walk, he’d probably fall face-first into the dirt—or worse, end up tripping into a pile of horse manure.