![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
( In which the wild west goes about how it usually eventually did. )And the secondary simulation ended with a BANG!
[establishy. More cursing. Lots of simulated carnage. Eliot's finally found a way back out of the wild west!]
( In which the wild west goes about how it usually eventually did. )And the secondary simulation ended with a BANG!
[establishy. More cursing. Lots of simulated carnage. Eliot's finally found a way back out of the wild west!]
A secondary sim within the matrix, Friday
Jul. 31st, 2015 05:00 pm( The continuing adventures of Eliot in not-Deadwood ) [ooc: open for anyone who wants to come play cowboys and indians.
Content note: really blatant old school racism. Like, I feel dirty typing it. Here there be stereotypes (and even more cursing).]
( Things weren't making any more sense today than they'd made yesterday. )[my workday is long and so should my post be. The continuing adventures of Eliot in not-Deadwood. There is a lot of swearing in this.]
Eliot found himself gripping a set of reigns as hard as he'd just been gripping a man's shirt. He was on horseback, at night, on a dirt road through the middle of a busy and haphazard looking old west town, surrounded by other people on horses.
"You were sayin'," an older man on the horse to his left said. "You were sayin' about this man's story."
Eliot twisted in the saddle, looking behind him. It didn't make any more sense that way. "What."
"I said you were sayin' about this man's story. About that white family getting hacked and scalped in the woods."
"I -- I really wasn't," Eliot said, looking back over at the man.
"You feelin' alright there, friend?" Another man, this one on foot by the door to what seemed to be a rather busy saloon, said. "You're not goin' to fucking pass out and die on us now when you're all just gettin' set to ride out and investigate this cocksucker's claims to an Indian attack."
"What," Eliot said again. He blinked and reached up to adjust the hat he only just realized he was wearing. "Indian attack. . . ."
The men on horseback nodded. "Just been reported," said the man on the horse to his right.
Eliot blinked a few more times, looking around, and adjusted his hat again.
"The fella's story on this don't hold water," the man on the horse to his right hissed, like a prompter at a grade school play.
Eliot stared at him. The man nodded.
"The, uh." Eliot cleared his throat. "The fella's story -- on this don't hold water."
The man on the horse to his right nodded. "No, it don't."
And the other two men on horses started riding off.
Eliot stared after them a moment before spurring his own horse forwards. "That's -- Wild Bill. Wild Bill fucking Hickok. . . ."
[and Eliot has been zapped into Deadwood. Because like I would throw this guy into anything but a western. . . .]
"You were sayin'," an older man on the horse to his left said. "You were sayin' about this man's story."
Eliot twisted in the saddle, looking behind him. It didn't make any more sense that way. "What."
"I said you were sayin' about this man's story. About that white family getting hacked and scalped in the woods."
"I -- I really wasn't," Eliot said, looking back over at the man.
"You feelin' alright there, friend?" Another man, this one on foot by the door to what seemed to be a rather busy saloon, said. "You're not goin' to fucking pass out and die on us now when you're all just gettin' set to ride out and investigate this cocksucker's claims to an Indian attack."
"What," Eliot said again. He blinked and reached up to adjust the hat he only just realized he was wearing. "Indian attack. . . ."
The men on horseback nodded. "Just been reported," said the man on the horse to his right.
Eliot blinked a few more times, looking around, and adjusted his hat again.
"The fella's story on this don't hold water," the man on the horse to his right hissed, like a prompter at a grade school play.
Eliot stared at him. The man nodded.
"The, uh." Eliot cleared his throat. "The fella's story -- on this don't hold water."
The man on the horse to his right nodded. "No, it don't."
And the other two men on horses started riding off.
Eliot stared after them a moment before spurring his own horse forwards. "That's -- Wild Bill. Wild Bill fucking Hickok. . . ."
[and Eliot has been zapped into Deadwood. Because like I would throw this guy into anything but a western. . . .]
