Marshal Marcus Gray (Light Your Fuse)

Sprays of dust shoot up and hit my face
My space bike touches down heavily, a testament to its long race
To the most notorious bar on Retrieval, my way I trace
I should never have been here, one could make the case

“We Don’t Do Alive,” a flickering sign dying in the cold light of day reads
The next office is of Scorpion’s Sting, and I wonder if they will be drawn by today’s deeds
For between the two offices, if they can be called that, a flight of stairs downward leads
Light Your Fuse is the bar’s name which serves red rust and other sundry meads

“A glass of red rust.” A sudden silence descends, the kind that kills
The bartender slides a full glass with deft hands so that not a drop spills
“Will need one every minute. Thank you.” I place my outstretched palm on the counter to pay the bills
“On the house. The next minute your brains will be in your glass,” he says in a voice that the blood stills

He brings out a shotgun from under the bar
“I can see I am not welcome here. The next minute will see me from here far”
I pull out a cigarette packet and ask for a light. He cocks the shotgun as if gearing up for war
“Anybody, got a light?” Everybody is staring at me. I feel like, in a shoddy movie, I am the star

The bartender sets a timer on the built-in digital clock on the wall
Creatures start reaching for their firearms all around the hall
Twenty seconds are all I have now. “I would very much like to smoke before to my death I fall”
One of them proffers a light and with the other hand, on my neck, places a sword that is rather tall

“Thank you kindly,” I say shaking the pack
With a jerk, I yank the pack sharply forward. A gun extends out with a crack
The muzzle points at the face of the creature. To strike my neck, he pulls the sword back
I crumple the pack and where his face had been, all there is, is a lack
I shake the pack backward and a handle extends
I and the barkeep fire simultaneously; mine his face rends
I turn my head to the side; missing me, his bullet another creature’s life ends
Before others can react, with unmatched precision, each bullet one creature to their death sends

I stare at death from many a weapon being raised, and each time my gun says nay
When I am done, silence reigns supreme a second time and this time I think it’s going to stay
I light a cigarette from the offered lighter; I read the caption, “Smoking kills,” and say, “You don’t say!”
Through the blood and the dead bodies, to the bar counter I make my way

I place the palm of the barkeep on the bar and put his iris in front of the scanner
I sift through the files on the system in a brisk manner
I have never felt a punch so hard, upon my honor
I stare at a “Kill on Sight” order under the picture of the Black Panther, original name Will Tanner