The middle-aged man arrived at Two Suns, a tiny town in the countryside. Most streets were old dirt roads that used to be filled with cattle and sellers; roads are usually empty now. Some townspeople steal electricity from close-by powerlines; most of them don’t. Pedro was tired from the ride a story-telling trucker gave him. A place to sleep would be good to find, but Pedro didn’t know the town. It was a bit past midnight.

On a street where most light poles were out – I doubt the mayor cares – there was a bar standing out because of its red neon light. It read “The Tavern.” Ironic name, considering the town. Definitely not three stars, but Pedro preferred a crappy bed rather than the streets. The bar had five tables, all empty. The bartender was a beefy-bearded man with his shirt mostly open until the protruding hairy belly. He hardly looked at Pedro walking in. This wasn’t a place for waiters; you want your stuff, you go and get it. The only smell was alcohol.

“Is there a room I can stay in?” Pedro asked.

“If you pay… It’s 20 bucks.”

“OK. I need something to sleep; any whisky?”

“Pinga only, friend.”

Fair enough. Pedro sat down at one of the tables next to the exit with a glass full of a pungent, almost transparent liquid made from sugar cane. The taste was good; the smell: pure alcohol.

Three men walked into the bar. The bartender couldn’t care less. Pedro kept minding his own business, but he was paying attention. The men got their booze and sat down on the other corner of the bar. Pedro smelled trouble – and alcohol. The men tried to hide their intentions, but Pedro was no fool. Nonetheless, Pedro enjoyed his drink without worrying. Once finished, he stood up.

“I guess we all need to do what we need to do, right?” Pedro said to the men.

Two of them stood up. Pedro threw the glass into one of them and struck his knife far inside the skull of the other. The one Pedro assaulted with the glass didn’t have enough time to recover before Pedro finished him. The leader threw his chair aside, trying to impose fear, but all he could say was a faint “you are dead.” Pedro put a bullet in the bartender’s head too, for good’s sake. Pedro took a sip from one of the bottles in the bar and left; no reason to stay there anymore.

In the streets, a small crowd was waiting for Pedro. The townspeople had red eyes and were snarling and drooling; they were hungry.

“Fucking town,” Pedro snorted while grabbing his blade and gun.