7: Jackie, Peacemaker and the Law
7
JACKIE, PEACEMAKER AND THE LAW
The gun-pony sat outside the front door of Golden Oak Library with the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes, although he was not asleep. The night was warm, so he had declined a blanket. He held guard in absolute silence, as inside, Twilight and Spike slept peacefully. The library had been made by hollowing out the heart of a fat tree which had stood since before the day of Ponyville’s founding. Its roof of green leaves and the healthy colour of the bark led the gun-pony to believe it was still very much alive, and had not been claimed as real estate by any building authority, but rather it had allowed itself to become useful to the community growing around it. It was now home to eight-thousand, nine-hundred and ninety-four books and scrolls, with a private room amid its highest boughs. Jack-a-Nape had found the key underneath the mat and let them in, then Peacemaker had carried his snoozing charges one-by-one up to the bedroom and left them there, Twilight on the bed and Spike in a basket beside her which would serve as a cot for the time being.
After that, they had talked outside. Jackie had told him that he understood what Peacemaker thought of him, but he really did want to make nice and help out the newcomers. He had been one himself not long ago, and it could be difficult to adjust. The gun-pony said that he was grateful on Twilight’s behalf for the guide and the cart, what Jackie had called the party wagon. Jackie slapped him on the shoulder, told him it was nothing, and invited him for a drink at the Last Roundup, since the saloon was open late. Sarsaparilee, the mare who owned and ran the place, had been hiring additional staff and keeping even longer hours over the season, what with the influx of holidaymakers coming for the Summer Sun Celebration. Maybe they could find a couple of pretty fillies out for a wild weekend and in need of a little local hospitality, nudge-nudge, wink-wink.
Peacemaker asked Jack-a-Nape if he had something in his eye. The chestnut pony shook his head and pushed on with his sales pitch. “Sounds like fun, right? Been a while since I was on a real boys’ night out, an’ I’ll bet it’s the same for you but even longer! So, you comin’?”
“I think I had better not,” the gun-pony answered. “I should remain on guard here, just in case.”
Jack-a-Nape gave him an odd look. If Peacemaker planned to stay up all night, how was he going to get any sleep?
“In case of what?” he asked.
Peacemaker shrugged. “I do not know, but it’s better to be safe than sorry, do you kennit?”
“Well, sure, I guess,” said Jackie, “but look, the saloon’s just over there.” He gestured across the expanse of grassland surrounding Golden Oak. It was surrounded like a secondary, smaller town square, on a short hill at the intersection between two roads. The sheriff’s office and gaol was to the southeast of it, the Last Roundup to the southwest. “We can go there an’ you can still keep a close eye on the library if you want.”
The gun-pony was silent for a minute, then he spoke up. “May I ask you something?” he questioned.
“Sure,” replied Jackie.
“Why do you want me to drink with you so badly?”
“Because I meant what I said before, P.M. I think I just wanna be your friend. I can tell you’re a good guy, even if you got nearly no sense of humour an’ the social skills of a rabid wolverine, seein’ as how you let those things on your belt do the most of your talkin’ for you.”
Peacemaker looked at him, then to the library and finally to the saloon. He seemed to be analysing inside his head, or maybe he was enjoying the distant, slightly clumsy plink-plink-plinking of the honky-tonk piano.
“I suppose there’s little point in shunning you forever, Jack-a-Nape,” he said at last. “You are not evil, and I do not think you would give up on befriending me or the others, even if I told you it was impossible and emptied both my barrels into you. One drink.”
Jackie’s expression brightened up considerably. “You’re a pretty good judge of character, P.M.,” he said. “I don’t believe in impossible, just highly improbable, so there’s always a chance, y’know?
“I know,” the gun-pony agreed.
They walked to the saloon, and Jackie sang loudly and happily along with the rising chorus of jumbled, mostly off-key voices, “Clean shirt, new shoes, an’ I don’t know where I am goin’ to. Silk suit, black tie, I don’t need a reason why…”
The saloon was filled with light and laughter. The hours which preceded the dawn of the Summer Sun Celebration were growing fewer and fewer. The number of out-of-towners looking for places to stay was expanding in near-perfect contrast. Jackie did not know most of the ponies inside, drinking, talking, playing with cards and dice, but it was an atmosphere he liked a lot. Everypony was in good spirits. He led Peacemaker up to the counter, where Sarsaparilee, a brown mare with a froth-coloured mane, thick in frame and sternly beautiful in mien, was pouring out glasses of the house special with blinding speed and dexterity.
“Hey, there, Sarsaparilee,” said Jackie, “man, is it bright in here tonight or is it just the—”
“Nice try, Jackie,” the saloon’s owner interrupted him. “I like ya, but you’re still too young for the good stuff, an’ ya know it.” Jackie grinned, and she added, “I’m talkin’ ’bout the drink.” Her expression was pleasant and her tone light, but there was a hard edge that told the gun-pony that she must have had many confrontations with many stallions, perhaps because they were trying to bum drinks, or just because they were flirting. He could believe that, for she had kept her looks well. Her voice and her demeanour spoke of a mare who was, beyond a shadow of a doubt, formidable.
“Yeah, well who’re you gonna tell? My ma?” Jackie asked with a sardonic snort. “Fine, can I get a soda then?”
“No law ’gainst that,” Sarsparilee replied agreeably. “What’ll your handsome friend have?”
Jackie looked at Peacemaker and mouthed the word ‘handsome’ in confused surprise. The saloon owner had only said it to get a rise out of him, Peacemaker could see that from her mischievous smirk, but did not comment on it.
“Graff, if it pleases you, sai,” he said.
“Excuse me?” Sarsaparilee asked, wrinkling her nose.
The gun-pony thought about it, then said, “It’s a kind of apple cider.”
“Well, we got cider straight from Sweet Apple Acres,” said Sarsaparilee, and she started tapping a keg behind her. “Not sure if it’s the same stuff you’re talkin’ ’bout, sweetie, but it’s still pretty dang good.” Jackie paid her the cost of the drinks, and she placed two perspiring glasses on the counter in front of them. “Enjoy it, boys.”
Peacemaker peered into the depths of the amber-red cider, and took a tentative sip. The taste was wonderful, although he could tell immediately that it contained no alcohol, which he found strange, for he had never heard of such a thing. Graff always had a distinct headiness to it, and was so strong that it could knock young colts right off their hooves. Sweet Apple Acres, she had said. That meant Applejack might have made this, which was a pleasing thought. If not, then old Granny Smith had, and he had liked her as well, like a venerable great aunt. The smell of the vast orchards returned to him, and he remembered the better part of his time there, brief as it was. It was not just the smell of the orchards, but the smell of Applejack, and suddenly he recalled her golden mane and her dazzling green eyes.
She had asked him not to kill, for her sake.
He had left her with no answer.
For the first time in his life, the gun-pony truly felt the weight of the big widow-makers which had been his travelling companions for so long. The weight seemed to transfer to his drink glass, and he let it land on the counter with a solid bump. Peacemaker took a step backwards.
“Where you goin’, bud?” Jackie asked.
“Nature’s call. Won’t be long,” the gun-pony replied, and with that he disappeared into the crowd of patrons like a ghost.
At the same time, in a far corner of the saloon, Deputy Hammer was jostled from behind by a tourist who had taken too much of the strong stuff for his own good. His eyes widened and he clutched his playing cards to his chest. He glared over his shoulder at the offender, who looked like he could barely stand up.
“Watch where you’re waddlin’, dough-ball,” the deputy growled.
“Shorry, pal,” the tourist slurred, and Hammer thought that would be it, just another stupid lush involved in a stupid accident inside a crowded room. Could have happened to anypony. Only, that was not it. In fact, it was exactly the opposite, for just as the whole affair began to slip from the list of things he cared about even peripherally, the deputy found a face sharing the same space as his shoulder, and two blurry eyes trying to focus on his hoof. “Hey, good cards, man. I dijn’t know ya could get five aces. You mush be shome…shome kinda…”
Hammer could hear his opponents asking it before they even opened their mouths. ‘Some kinda what, pard’? Just what kinda ‘some kinda’ might ya be talkin’ ’bout? See, we’ve done heard some unsavoury stories ’bout our dear friend the deputy here, and that one guy did land hisself in the hospital with casts on all a’ his parts, an’ that don’t seem like no accident what can happen on the ground floor of a saloon.’ The deputy’s mind conjured these accusations, along with many others, each more damning than the last. He felt the corners of his eyes twitch.
“Buzz off, ya dang fool, ’fore ya end up sleepin’ your headache off in a cell,” he murmured.
The tourist looked at him, or tried to at least. His head dipped down and he could not make actual eye contact. “I ain’t got no headache.”
“Yeah, ya do,” said Hammer, and out of sight of his fellow players, he kicked the tourist’s legs out from under him. The drunk went down like a rock, bashed his head on the table, then reeled back onto the floor. “Idjit out-a’-towners,” Hammer shrugged. “Seein’ double an’ all. Whoever heard a’ five aces? Even if I was cheatin’, I wouldn’t be that half-cocked, right?”
The other players looked at one another suspiciously and the game continued. Hammer either did not know, or simply did not care, that he had made his own inconvenience into somepony else’s. The tourist’s falling body had rammed into the side of Ditzy Doo, who was carrying a pot of red-eyed coffee in her forelegs as she made her way to table three. The effect of the impact was very much like a runaway train hitting a wooden fencepost. Ditzy had crumpled under the bigger pony’s weight, and the red-eye went flying. A few who saw it cheered it on, as if watching the winning shot in a ball game, before it landed, upset, at the hooves of the pony who had just stepped through the batwing doors.
The pot broke loudly on the floor, and a silence fell over the saloon. All eyes were on the figure standing in the doorway. Even though he had donned a wide-brimmed hat and a coat to obscure his damaged pride, the tin star left little doubt as to the identity of the pony who had been splashed. Tongs’s eyes scanned the room from behind his spectacles until they found Ditzy, who had squirmed out from under the big creature pinning her down and was now clumsily trying to regain her footing. He advanced on her, placed one forehoof atop her head, and pushed her back down.
“Ya got crud on me, slow one,” he uttered. Gone was the false confidence he had once worn before the incident earlier that morning. Now there was only a deep, bubbling anger which was and still is born of humiliation, and the knowing that it had been nopony’s fault save his own cockiness and stupidity. It was a breed of anger which sought to deal blame at any cost, and when no one pony was truly responsible, then all could be called upon to pay it. All he needed was a signal to home in on, and he had received it. “Ya got it on my hooves. So lick it off.”
“Gee, Mister Tongs, sir,” Ditzy whimpered, “can’t I just say I’m sorry and be done? ’Cause I am sorry! Really, really sorry!” She squeaked in pain as he lifted his other forehoof, piling further weight down on the vulnerable pegasus’s head. He dangled this second one in front of her mouth.
“Lick my hoof clean,” he scowled. “I want it so clean, ya can see your feeble-minded face in it.”
Ditzy’s mismatched eyes looked pleadingly around at the other patrons. Nopony moved. They were all staring back at her, mindless with anxiety. All save for two.
“Step off, Deputy,” said Sarsaparilee. “It was an accident. I saw the whole thing. Just let her go, have a drink on the house, an’ forget this ever happened. I don’t want no trouble in my place.”
Tongs did not move. Ditzy was shuddering under his weight. “What did you say to me?” he asked, in a quiet, emotionless tone, and suddenly he whipped about to face the saloon’s owner and screamed at her, “YOUR PLACE!? I’M THE LAW!” He called her something so rude it cannot be repeated in print, and then, “THIS PLACE IS MY PLACE! JUST LIKE EVERYWHERE IN THIS STINKIN’ TOWN! WEREN’T FOR THE LAW, YA’LL’D BE DEAD! AIN’T NO HOKEY ALICORNS SAVIN’ YOUR UNGRATEFUL HIDES FROM BANDITS, IS THERE!? IT’S THE LAW!”
Jackie put his drink down and turned to him. “You keep crowin’ ‘the law, the law’ like that,” he said, “an’ it’s gonna end up bein’ a serious curse word. The name Tongs is gonna be like what you call a pony born outta wedlock, if you catch my drift.”
“Watch your tongue, Nape,” Tongs threatened hoarsely.
Jackie continued. The words flowed forth like a stream, unable to stop, “Oh! An’ speakin’ of crowin’. For a stallion who don’t shut up about how safe the town is ’cause of him an’ his buddies, Ditzy there don’t look too safe to me. She don’t strike me as a bad guy, either. An’ am I the only one who didn’t actually see you headin’ out into the Everfree to fight this so-called outlaw gang? That don’t seem like your type of fight.”
“An’ jus’ how d’ya know what is an’ ain’t my type a’ fight?”
“Well, normally you don’t like it when the other guy hits back, do you?”
A wave of unsettled murmurs passed over the spectators. Tongs’s eyes went from one side to the other, then re-focussed on Jackie. His horn started to glow.
“Tongs, don’t do it,” said Hammer.
“Shut up, Hammer,” Tongs spat, and shifted his attention to the chestnut pony. “Nape, I’ve about had it with you an’ your kind.”
“And I have had it with yours, sai Deputy,” came the voice of the gun-pony. Tongs froze in fear. He could see him, across the room, both his guns ready. The rest of the scene became faint and wispy, as the force of the gun-pony became starkly more real to him, real and inevitable. The gun-pony’s position did not change, but the sensation of him crept towards the deputy like the tentacles of a hideous sea-monster. “I missed your brains on purpose last time, but I see the lesson has yet to be learned. Stand back, or you will die.”
Tongs looked down at the quivering lump of jelly beneath his hoof, then back to the stranger with the guns. The audience were expecting a stare-down, for one to be strong enough to wither his opponent with only his gaze. He could not meet the blue eyes of the stranger. The stranger was Death Himself, and Death withered everything, even the strongest. His coward’s instincts took over, and he was pedalling away from Ditzy Doo before he had consciously made the decision.
Jackie went to aid Ditzy, leading her away from the deputy to safety behind the bar where Sarsaparilee took her from him.
“A’right, kid,” Hammer told his colleague with an irritated growl, “get your rump on outta here, you’re an embarrassment to the badge.” Tongs, doubly cowed, slunk slowly out of the batwing doors and onto the street. Hammer nodded his approval, then faced the gun-pony and said, “Stranger, I reckon I owe ya an apology for his reprehensible behaviour.”
“You owe me nothing, sai,” said the gun-pony, and holstered his totems, “but your fool friend owes much to the filly he bullied, to sai Sarsaparilee for his rudeness, and to all the ponies whose enjoyment he has so flagrantly destroyed, do you kennit?”
“I make ya right, friend,” said Hammer. “How’s about you an’ I step out, let these ponies all get back to their merry-makin’? I mean no offence, but so long as one a’ us is in here, they’re gonna be stayin’ antsy, wouldn’t ya agree?”
“Agreed,” Peacemaker replied with a nod. “Thankee for the graff,” he said to Sarsaparilee, and followed Hammer towards the door.
“I don’t like this,” murmured Jackie, falling in step behind him. “My big mouth didn’t exactly help much back there, lemme make it up by watchin’ your back.”
Peacemaker said nothing, which to Jackie was not a no.
XXX
Tongs thought he had been sent into the Last Roundup to find Hammer, but around the time they entered the sheriff’s office and gaol, he realised that the truth was very different. He had been intended as a scapegoat.
He was boiling over with embarrassment. His cheeks felt twitchy and uncomfortable long after the blushing had stopped. He was angry all the time now, no matter how hard he tried to control his temper – which was really not his fault, it was all down to that unholy ghost, honest and truly – and that made the guys think he was useless. He should not have been surprised. Of course they thought like that, because they always had done. He was the youngest, four years Hammer’s junior and who-knew-how-many Ramrod’s. The sheriff was a fully grown stallion before Tongs had even been born. It had not been so long ago when he had been known to them as ‘the kid’ and other monikers which made him feel so inadequate. That was why he had grown his moustache, even though he found tending to it an awful hassle. It helped him look at least the same age as Hammer, who had no facial hair, only the dark speckling on his face that Tongs found horrible to look at because it made him think they had dripped right off the ends of his greasy, black bangs.
Ultimately, it had been for nothing, just like his attempts to win over Applejack had been for nothing. Hammer had called him ‘kid’ in front of everypony.
He would always be ‘kid.’
In the enclosed space of the office, he pushed himself into the corner shadows, feeling uneasy being so close to all of them. The sheriff and the stranger who must surely be the Pale Pony of Death competed in his heart for who made him the most fearful. He wished so hard that he had shot the soft-spoken brat’s baby blues right out of his back end, and a gradually weakening part of his personality insisted it was not too late to fix that oversight. Rubbish. It was miles too late. Even Nape, smart-mouthed moron though he was, had achieved a higher standing in the pecking order. Ramrod had no reason to be disappointed in Nape, and Hammer had no reason to hate him, but he knew both of these sentiments spoke for how they saw him right now, if they saw him at all.
“Hammer, Tongs.”
The sheriff broke his spiralling train of thought, and thank all the powers that he did. Tongs hated being allowed to think so deeply. It made him too self-conscious of how much he loathed himself.
“Escort Mister Nape to one a’ the cosy cells, an’ make sure nopony gets nosy. I’d like my chat with our young friend here to be in the strictest confidence.”
“Hey, I ain’t movin’,” Jack-a-Nape retorted defiantly.
“You’ll do what your sheriff tells ya, Nape,” growled Tongs, thankful he could project his aggression, “an’ you’ll do it gladly ’cause he’s—”
“Tongs, if you say ‘the law,’ I’m gonna cut your tail so it matches your stupid mane,” Nape interrupted. “Seriously, pal, you should probably go ask your stylist for your money back. I mean, don’t take it personally, ’cause I actually dig retro, but that New Age crop circle look went out years ago.” This elicited a sharp bark of laughter from Hammer. Tongs hated that laugh, and he hated the toothy smile spreading across the earth pony’s face.
“Jackie will comply with your wish,” said the gun-pony, before Nape could protest, “but he will only need one of your deputies as an escort. I request you send the other elsewhere whilst we palaver.”
“Sounds fair,” Ramrod conceded. “So be it. Ham—”
“I cry your pardon, sai,” said the gun-pony, “but let it be Tongs who takes Nape to his cell. Send Hammer away.”
Ramrod eyed him incredulously. “Mighty presumptuous of ya to make demands of a sheriff in his own town, boy,” he said.
“I make no demands, sai,” replied the gun-pony. “I only ask with the respect a pony of the law deserves. Where I hail from, the star on your chest carries great weight. Only ponies whose virtue and judgement are trusted may wear it.” He bowed in his strange manner, one foreleg tucked beneath and one stretched out.
“It’s some kinda trick, boss,” said Tongs. “Don’t you go fallin’ for it.” He immediately paid for this surge of bravery with a stab of dread as Ramrod looked at him. His eyes were brimming over with disdain. Tongs withdrew into his shell and the sheriff returned to his previous conversation as if nothing had happened. The gun-pony had risen straight again.
“P.M., don’t be stupid!” Nape moaned. “You can’t trust him! You need a pony to watch your back!”
The gun-pony responded by donning a countenance which brokered no argument. Nape shut up, and Tongs felt a hint of satisfaction knowing he was not the only one who had to suffer that species of mistreatment. It never occurred to him that Peacemaker’s expression had been one of reassurance, not dominance, and that talks of trust were at that very moment being tested by what was to happen next. Tongs had no concept of that. Trust was only a concise way of telling you to shut up and let the boss do what needed doing, or to shut up and do as you were told. Bosses pushed you around because they were bigger and knew better than you and that was that.
“Let’s go, laughin’-boy,” he said, and pushed Nape through the door which led from the front office to a hall containing a row of barred cells. Ramrod had insisted the separating wall be built so that if prisoners got too rowdy he could shut the door, ignore them and go back to his nap. He saw over his shoulder as Ramrod gestured and Hammer obliged him by leaving the office entirely. That made him feel a little better. He did not care where Hammer went, only that he did, because with Ramrod occupied by his talking with Death Himself, there would be nopony to tell him to stop if he decided to have some fun with his favourite little pain in the neck.
“So I guess we ain’t invited to the party, huh?” Nape joked as they reached the furthest cell. “They must be ticked off ‘cause I forgot to bring the cake an’ punch. It’s not exactly my fault, though. Cake’s in bed with a cold an’ punch is outta town visitin’ family.”
Tongs shoved him roughly into the cell. Nape’s hooves scraped the floor and his side bounced against the wall.
“Yo! How about a little courtesy in here?” he griped. “Lemme tell you, buddy, I don’t see this place makin’ three stars in the next edition of Hooflin’s Red Guide.”
The deputy said nothing. He watched Nape become apprehensive, and grinned wickedly. Go on, you motherless pile a’ manure! he thought, his every neuron firing through a filmy vat of poison. Go on! Laugh at me! It’ll be the last thing ya ever do! Nape said nothing, only continued to watch him. He poured his magick into his horn, and soon felt the familiar, pulsating warmth which was between and behind his eyes at the same time. He cast it towards the door at the far end of the short hall, and the gaps between the door, the wall and the floor filled with reddish-orange foam that solidified into crusty muck.
The Spell of Soundlessness had magickally proofed the office and the gaol from each other. “Looks like we’re alone now, Nape,” said Tongs, unable to hold back his chuckling. “Just you an’ me.”
“Okay, champ, you need to settle down,” Nape was pleading. “Is this over the banana thing? I mean, seriously, that was ages ago. Can’t we let bygones be bygones?”
Tongs entered the cell and willed the door shut behind him. “Naw,” he said, “it’s just that I got a long list a’ names now, an’ you’re the closest.”
“Oh, criminy,” Nape whimpered, “don’t hurt me.” The words were different in his ears, not entirely the same as how Tongs’s demented brain processed them, but he was feeling big now. Here, he was in charge. He was the boss, and he could do what needed doing.
“I ain’t gonna hurt ya, Nape. I’m gonna kill ya.”
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Ya killed me with the inclusion of "Sharp Dressed Man".
I love it, and as a bar song it makes every bit as much sense as "Hey Jude."
And Tongs seriously has something broken inside his head. It got creepy reading Jackie's slowly-growing realization that he was in a situation he can't joke is way out of. I can't imagine Peacemaker's guns are going to stay quiet for much longer.
I knew there was a reason I chose you, Dutch. This is one of the greater adventure stories I've read in recent times. You emulate Mr. King perfectly, writing incredible characters and graphic, exciting scenes. That bar scene was like something out of a true wild west movie.
Continue your epic story-telling, and I'll continue promoting you every week. So far, since I featured you, you haven't missed an update post; that's the best thing for me. I know I never have long to wait for more Peacemaker.
3657197 Thank you kindly. I hope you enjoy the rest of the story just as much.
3658590 Noted for future reference. I'll sweep up a bit after I finish writing the current chapter. It was never my intent to offend any speakers. Thank you for the review, though, it's really made my day. Long days and pleasant nights to you.
3660684 Fixed those mistakes. I do try with the dialogue, but I'm not a native speaker so I'm bound to suffer the odd foul-up despite my intentions, and it's always wonderful to have someone who can educate me. I'm very grateful for the clarifications and I'll try to better engineer my dialects.
Yes, I have heard of both Blind Guardian and Demons & Wizards. I thoroughly enjoy their literature-based work. In fact when I was pitching some of my ideas for Roses and any stories which might follow it to some friends of mine (Cutie Mark Crusaders + The Losers Club, anyone?
), I showed them the Touched by the Crimson King album. We sort of forgot what we were talking about after a few minutes and started acting out the roles within the songs. Heh, heh, heh.
I have an idea for how to bring in a version of Blaine the Mono, as well as other factors from the books, but I need to iron out some of the wrinkles first. He was a lot of fun, one of my favourite antagonists, and I'd like to do him justice. Frank Muller put on an excellent performance in the audiobook version, and if an audiobook version of this ever arises (it may very well happen), I'd like my Blaine to be on par.
3662569 I'll take that mom vs. mum thing into account. Truth be told I agree with you. Habits are irritating. I'm currently carrying out some extensive typographical edits recommended by amacita, but I'll get to that soon. You're right about Tull, or rather, you're right that I can't really say anything at this time. In the beginning I had planned to craft aspects of Father Callahan into Fluttershy, but the Sisters of Oriza naturally added themselves to the mix as well, so I went back and gave her that sigul. Finally, the first draft did refer simply to "the mare in black" but it was by personal preference that I went with "the black alicorn." Once again, I cannot say too much, but you'll know soon enough. Don't worry.
Ah, you referenced BggProductions! Long ago had I found him (before I had read The Waste Land), and I rather liked the music he made greatly. You, sai, have fair tastes. Ditto for ZZ Top. You know, ever since I read The Dark Tower, I've actually been seeing a few people in my life make ZZ Top references, and just think that's dapper.
Well, I've got to the end of what you have, and I agree with everything Cerulean Voice down there says. Fantastic Story,. Fantastic Writing. Fantastic fantasy. I look forwards to when you fix up with all of Amacita's little notes, then get yourself published (more or less). Really, this kind of writing is quality, proper-novel writing. You should be proud of yourself. I needn't state here how clearly you've remember the face of your father, now do I? I await further chapters with eagerness, great eagerness, sai.
I didn't think it could exist, but it does. A crossover with the Dark Tower. You sir, have earned yourself a place on the tippy top of my reading list. But before I go into the first chapter, tell me: Is this spoiler free for someone who has only read as far as the middle of Wolves of the Calla?
I KNEW THIS WAS WORTH IT!
My faith in your ability to make EqD was evident from the very beginning. Prepare to have your viewership skyrocket! A very happy Christmas to you, Dutch-sai.
Edit: welcome to the family. Also, remember this?
Let the celebrations commence!
DARK TOWER OH MY GOD
3678741 At the moment, yes. The book mostly includes elements of the first and fourth books, with a couple of tiny bits from the fifth. There are no spoilers regarding Book VI: Song of Susannah or Book VII: The Dark Tower.
Seeing that dreaded red bar on this story without any explanation:
3699201 I wouldn't worry about it. I reckon Randall Flagg is probably reading this story. Being a cosmological git is sort of his thing. Pick up Dark Tower III: The Waste Lands, Eyes of the Dragon or The Stand, you'll see what I mean.