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━━━

"Look who's come to join us, the Sheriff himself,"

Dorothy's voice fills August's senses.

The saloons, expectantly, on Friday nights were the busiest. They held the most people during these days - especially evenings, once everyone collectively finished their rounds of work, all to harbour within the same space.

All, to drink.

Drinking; Sandrange holds such a factor to be culture now, as do many towns across the rural, golden-dirted fields. It isn't as if the town is necessarily lacking of general, non-intoxicated hobbies and entertainment, but it's something they all simply do as a tradition.

Because, if one does it, the rest do. 

And this can last for years. 

With the strange, yet almost customary decor of the dried and cleaned American buffalo skull hung upon the wall, along with many hunter-styled trinkets and furs, alcohol lines the air, and the walls are wood-panelled, just like the furniture. 

Leather, soft kinds of cotton and denim were the common-place clothing worn by the people shifting around the Saloon, modest-length dresses and dirt-coated vests by the men who'd been farming all day. 

Even some of the painted women - the prostitutes that did actually have a significant role within the social and economic development of this town, and among many, we're also out conversing. 

August wouldn't pay any mind to them, sitting beside Dorothy and a few other co-workers he originally threw profanities at just a week or so ago, with a casual grin holding no hostility. 

"Howdy, we drinkin' already?" He chuckles, Dorothy sliding him an angular glass, topped with Whiskey. 

"Gotcha one; ya' didn't bring Miss L/N?" Dorothy questions with genuine surprise whilst the rim of the glass meets August's lips, taking a long swallow as he lowers it, reaching into his pocket. 

"I asked, she wasn't in the best head-space tonight; I'll check on her tomorrow mornin'," He take's a quirly from his pocket, placing it between his lips as he lights it with a flicked match. 

He takes a long drag, smoke exhaling from his nostrils as he holds the quirly in one hand, the index finger of his other hand idly tracing the rim of his glass. 

"That's quite alright, you've been bringin' her out and about a lil' more, so I was just curious,"

"He probably didn't want to see how fuckin' stupid August gets when he's pissed-drunk,"

Darren-Floyd - sitting across the booth of the filled chairs, voice invades August's previously carefree mood, tainting it in a woven wave of distaste.

Even August's face visibly scowls so expressively, that it's almost comical. 

"Why don't ya' shut the fuck up, Floyd? Nobody fuckin' asked you for yer' opinion."

He hisses back with a scoff, Dorothy tapping August's shoulder with a reprimanding shocked, glare. 

"What-!? He's the one startin' it-"

"Because you've been a fuckin' prick, August, so why don't you drag your ass off to the town over-"

"Floyd-!" 

Dorothy's head snaps over, the crimson curls she has pulled back in a ringlet-layered ponytail flowing by her shoulders, shooting him a look of disapproval.