His landing was not soft to say the least. It was as though the strange teleportation flung him straight up and into the ground. Erron Black acknowledged this by mumbling a string of curses under his bandana.

At least my wound's healed now, he thought as he pushed himself off the ground. Luckiest damned guy in the world here. Once on his feet, he wondered, Speaking of world, where the hell am I?

Erron looked to his left and saw long black road split in half by a dotted yellow line. What the purpose of those lines were was beyond him.

The sight on his right, however, was one that was all too familiar to him; a bar.

So I'm on Earthrealm then, Black deduced, this place has really cleaned up since the last time I been here. The glowing signs are new, he added to his train of thought at the sight of a large blue, glowing sign announcing, "Debra's. Open Monday thru Saturday."

Well, he thought, might as well see what bars look like nowadays. It might be a while until someone brings me back. He briefly pondered how he was going to get back, but decided that he would much rather be drinking than thinking and walked towards Debra's.

Before he walked in, he recalled that he might look a bit suspicious walking in there with two guns on his hips and a mask on his face. He hastily whipped his bandana off and shoved it into his belt, the scar on his mouth now visible. He had no way to hide the guns so, thinking quickly, he pulled the golden revolvers out of their holsters and into the waistband of his brown pants, covering them with his black shirt. He hoped no one noticed the empty holsters.

The moment he walked in, a number of eyes landed on him. He was used to being stared at,--he was one of the most feared and admired gunslingers in his days--but these states were not ones of admiration or awe; it was utter confusion.

Even though he wisely stowed his guns and mask away, the sight of a man wearing a faded black shirt with brown pants, empty holsters, and cowboy boots was definitely worth taking notice--and that's not even mentioning his hat.

However, where the bar's patrons were from, eccentrics, wierdos, and even cosplayers were quite common, so most only gave him a quick, surprised glance. Besides, the man's arms were thick with muscle and criss-crossed with scars.

After most of the confused stares fell, Erron made his way to the bartender to get a drink. The only available seat was between a man wearing a stained, once-upon-a-time white T-shirt and jeans--he had bad teeth and worse conversation skills--and the skinny, heavily make-upped blonde he was obviously flirting with--she was desperately trying to pretend she was slightest bit interested in what the man was saying. Erron used to call people like that hillbillies and tavern wenches, but he knew that they were now called prostitutes and white trash. Erron plopped between them.

"Hey," White Trash said as Erron cut off their one-sided conversation.

"Howdy," Erron said calmly, not even looking at him. "Hey, what kind of rum do you have here?" He then said to the bartender.

White Trash just glared at Erron as he requested "Whatever's good."

"Hey!" White Trash shouted as the bartender turned to make his drink.

"What?" Erron replied getting a bit agitated with this guy.

"Can't you see I'm trying to talk to my girl?" White Trash questioned gesturing to the prostitute behind him.

Erron took a quick look back at her, turned to the disgruntled patron and said, "The change in my pocket would be enough to make her my 'girl.' By the way, how much is this?" He added to the bartender holding up his glass.

The prostitute scoffed, insulted, and walked away White Trash looked at Black like he had just shot his wife in front of him as the bartender responded, "Thirteen dollars."

"Ah," Erron Black said, searching his pockets. Coming up short,--he had no Earthrealmer money--he turned to White Trash and said, "Help a partner out?"

But that seemed to have been the last straw for the infuriated White Trash, for he swung his fist, aiming for Erron's nose. Erron saw the attack coming a mile away--he did ruin the guy's chance for getting some tonight and then asked him for money a second afterwards--so he was able to easily duck under the blow and return the favor with a quick uppercut.

White Trash staggered backwards but he was apparently tougher than he looks because he was able to stay on his feet and go for another punch; this one, a right hook. Erron grabbed the man's forearm with his left hand before his fist could make contact and punched him in the face twice with his right. White Trash stood, swaying in place until Erron finished him with a strong left hook to the jaw.

Erron turned around, attempting to leave the vicinity before police would undoubtedly arrive, when he was met a tattooed fist--the knuckles spelt out B-A-N-G, as Erron got a close look at them. Before he could react, he was punched in the gut as well. However, he was able to react to the next blow aimed for his right temple. He blocked the left hook with his forearm, grabbed the new foe's bicep, and head-butted him in the nose. As his most recent challenger staggered away clutching his bloody nose, Erron kicked him in the stomach, and he fell down groaning.

The quick exchanges of blows seemed to have excited the other patrons of the bar because, before long, people were taking turns attacking the cowboy.

Next up was a big man with a bushy, black beard and a shiny, bald head and his friend, who was taller than Erron but not as muscular. Blackbeard swung at Erron, but he leaned away from the flung fist and side-kicked him in the knee. After Blackbeard fell to one knee, the gunslinger spun around to Beanpole, and socked him in the gut twice before he could even think about blocking. As the tall man doubled over in pain, Black grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and slammed his face into his knee. Beanpole fell back, unconscious.

Erron nearly forgot that he hadn't incapacitated Blackbeard, but he was reminded of the burly man's presence after being grabbed by the shoulders. On reflex, Erron flung his elbow backwards into Blackbeard's face. The Outworlder quickly spun around and grabbed the man by the shirt and threw him over the bar.

His next opponent didn't even get to throw a punch before Erron hit him with a wooden barstool, which shattered over the man's head.

The next three people to dare challenge him suffered similar fates. The first two, dressed in all black, were knocked out after a quick struggle, and the other was beaten so badly that when he fell, he elected to stay down. Erron looked around at his good work; six people unconscious on the ground, the seventh limping hurriedly out the door. There was only two conscious people in the bar: the bartender, standing to the side, watching the action, and another guy dressed in all black with a red bandana around his neck. He was looking at the carnage Erron caused with a satisfied look on his face. He nodded and looked towards Erron.

"Nice work," the stranger said, "you got skill."

"Thanks," Black said warily. Earthrealmers weren't usually this calm after seeing him kick ass like that. Hell, anyone with good sense would be trying to get as far away as he can from this fighting demon.

"Buuut," the stranger continued, "a couple of those guys were my friends." He gestured to the two unconscious, black-clad victims.

"Well," Erron replied, flexing his fingers, "I'd be lying if I said I was sorry." He cracked his neck. "So are you gonna fight me, too, or not?"

"Oh, absolutely," the stranger said, loosening his shoulders and putting his fists up like a boxer. Then, quick as a flash, he stepped forward and roundhouse kicked Erron in the side. Erron staggered to the side, not expecting the quick, skilled move. He punched at the stranger's face, aiming anywhere, but was stopped by a karate-like block and countered with a jab to the throat.

Erron stepped backwards, choking, and tried to assess the opponent. He knew martial arts, that much was plain, but the question was how to combat it. He's faced skilled opponents before--Tanya, Rain, Tarkatans, the occasional assassin--so he knew he just had to keep his head. This guy was no pushover.

Erron went in to attack. He gave a fast, but weak, jab to the stomach, which was quickly blocked, followed by a stronger left hook to the stranger's cheek. The blow connected and made the new opponent's head twist to the right. This led to true and honest kombat; a dance of punches, kicks, blocks, and counters that went on for a good amount of time.

Erron attempted an uppercut to the stomach, but the stranger blocked it with a sweep of his black-clad arm. The stranger swung at Erron's temple, but his move too, was blocked by the comboy's forearm. Said gunslinger then slid his arm over the stranger's and tucked his elbow into his own armpit. Then, having his opponent trapped, Erron gave three swift but strong punches into his stomach. His attack was halted, however, by the stranger headbutting Erron between his eyes. Black was only dazed for a second, but it was enough for the stranger to grab Erron by the neck and throw him into the nearest table. Erron rolled over it and landed on his feet on the other side. The two fighters were now standing apart, separated by the circular table.

"Your move," the stranger said breathlessly.

Erron grunted and jumped on top of the table. Utilizing his newly achieved high ground, Black swung his foot at the stranger, aiming for his head or neck. He kicked three times, but they were all blocked, and on the third kick, the stranger grabbed Erron's leg and swung him off the table. Erron was thrown onto the ground and continued to roll. He only stopped when he hit the leg of a table.

As he rose, swearing, the stranger looked as though he were trying not to laugh.

"You think this is funny?" Black questioned dangerously.

"Hysterical," the stranger replied with a smile.

Without warning, Erron charged at the man in black and attempted a head clap that was blocked by the stranger putting both of his arms up. However Erron, pissed, clutched his opponent's shoulders and kneed his twice in the gut and once more in the groin. The legendary weak point took its affect as the stranger's cringed in pain. Making the most of his brief opportunity, Black ran up to him, jumped, and kicked him with both feet, sending the stranger sliding on his back.

Erron walked over to the sputtering fighter to check if he needed to kick him once or twice. The way his ex-opponent was coughing expressed that he did not. Still, though, he put his foot on his chest, just to be safe.

"We're done here?" Erron asked looking down at his most recent victory. The stranger nodded. "Good," was all Erron said before walking away.

Gods-damn, he was tougher than I thought. Erron mentally noticed. He then mentally praised himself for winning.

It wasn't as much as a sound more like a gut feeling that told Erron that the stranger was getting to his feet. Knowing what usually happens next, the gunslinger slipped one of his revolvers from his pants, spun around, and slapped the hammer of his gun while pulling the trigger, sending a forty-five millimeter bullet into the stranger's heart. The handgun slid from the stranger's hand as he fell backwards, dead.

"Don't know when to quit..." Erron stated as he walked out of the bar, not entirely sure of where he's going but completely not caring.

(In case you don't know, a head clap is exactly what it sounds like, clapping your hands on one's head. It's a real thing)

I'm baaaaack! It's been a while. Reeeaaal sorry but I've had bigger problems than this story (surprising, I know) but I'm back now and I plan to get stuff done. Not entirely sure which characters fate I'll reveal next...

Comment if you have a preference. And if you don't have a preference, comment anyway. I love hearing what you guys say about my story.

I promise next chapter won't take me as long to write. You have my word