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Here it is, Chapter 5! To all those who are following this story, I'm open to plot direction suggestions at this point, cause I'm starting to get a touch of ye' old writers block. If you have any ideas, go ahead and let me know in the comments.

Also, this is the CLEAN version of this chapter. If you want to ready the version that follow's Nicholson's visit to the brothel in all the juicy details, follow the link below: Chapter 5, Dirty Version

Within an hour, Charles had arranged to call together a town meeting (Congregation is what the settlers there called 'em). Before he knew it, Nicholson was brought to what was left of the old truck stop and hurried along behind a ramshackle stage that was erected just behind the main building. The event was quite something, considering the surroundings. From what he could tell, the stage wasn't actually a stage at all, but an elaborate platform where merchants usually set up to peddle their goods. The gunslinger assumed that when the time needed, it became a podium or stage.

A group of about 50 people, humans and muties alike, now milled around in front of the stage, chatting quietly amongst themselves. Children laughed and ran between the others, seeking out their friends and playmates to talk to. Nicholson now stood beside the stage, and Charles stood in the middle of the platform, trying to catch the people's attention but obviously having no luck. Nicholson was watching the barkeep's efforts when he a rough cough from behind him, and he spun about to find a man in his mid-forties holding out a hand to shake.

"G'day to ya, sir." The man blurted out, making meager attempts to sound official. "Name's Cole, head of the trade traffic and affairs 'round here." And then he added, somewhat more proudly, "Which pretty much makes me the head of this shabby squatters-vill. I head up most problems or questions, and help the folks get arranged for building and such when newcomers arrive."

Nicholson took Cole's hand and shook.

"Do ya fine, m'names Nich-" The gunslinger hesitated, not used to calling himself by any name. The name felt like a disguise to him, as he had gone without it for so long.

"Uh..." He continued. "Nicholson. Th'names Nicholson."

Cole gave an odd wide smile and said.

"Do ya fine? Never heard that one before, you pick it up somewhere's up north?"

Nicholson smiled to himself, recalling the books he had read about the Gunslinger Roland and the odd way they all talked.

"Yeah, you could say that." Nicholson responded.

Cole favored him with the odd smile one last time, then his face fell somberly serous.

"You do plan on stayin' round, don ya?" He asked. "We've had our problems as much as any other, but these here folk would be many-a grateful to be at ease for a while."

The gunslinger only nodded, his reply before he realized the crowd had hushed up a bit. He turned and saw that all eyes were now on Charles, who had his arms up over his head in his latest attempt to get the people's attention.

"Alright er'body, thankya for showin." Charles began. "As you know, we had our few issues in the past few months, what with the raiders burnin out the water-box and the scavengers lootin out our medic shack." Charles quieted for a moment before adding. "...and killen down poor man Greggs." Nicholson saw a couple men sweep their hats from their heads and place them over their chests at this comment.

"But don you worry no longer!" Charles declared, swooping a fist through the air for emphasis. "We got us here a drifter what blew into here jus' this morning, and stopped that fuckin' cranker from takin away the boy!"

A few encouraging whoops and claps came from the crowd, and somebody shouted "Blew 'em right down, sure 'nuff!"

"And now hear this!" Charles said, speaking louder now. "Tha same cull who done it has told me, he figure to stay with us a while, and keep an eye out! He got the skills to help, I can kin to tha, and the guns of an artist, sure as all!

"And believe you me," Charles began putting a swaggering and jolly slang on his words. "This here mutie can use em damn well, jus like them old leather-slappin hard-asses from long ago!" Now he was receiving full applause, and motioned for Nicholson to come up onstage.

Nicholson donned his hat and stepped up onto the stage, his heavy leather boots (Home-made, of course) clunking on the open wooden planks. Charles continued his speech, giving his final say so as Nicholson walked toward the middle where the barkeep stood.

"So, I have called this congregation forth so ya ken meet him, and we can all settle some of the smaller points ta this." Nicholson had reached the middle now, and all eyes were suddenly on him.

He was a sight to see; all dressed in the hand-stitched buckskin duster and crossed ammo belts slung low, with the gleam of his Irons just visible beneath the coat. His tail twitched placidly from side to side and his lone ear twisted slowly left and right, taking in all there was to hear. He waved a lazy salute to them all, feeling a bit uncomfortable under the scrutiny of so many people. Charles finally wrapped up his introduction.

"So now, here he is. Everybody, this here's Jesse Nicholson." Nicholson Charles an irritated glance, but the bartender ignored it. "He's the new ah... the new..." Charles twirled a hand round at his waist, looking for the word. "Ah hell, we'll just call 'em our new Sheriff."

Several people chuckled, but everybody clapped. Nicholson (Or Jesse, whichever kins ya right) flashed his crooked smile and did a have wave, have lazy flap-o-the-hand to the crowd, who had immediately began attempting to ask questions. Charles waved his hands to silence them.

"Uh... Greetins to ya." Jesse (Nicholson) said, trying but failing to soften the low and gruff growl that was his dust-stained voice. Before he could say any more, a man called out from the crowd.

"How fair ya with them there shooters?" He yelled.

Another voice, deeper and younger, commented "Yeah, ol' Charles been tellin us you learned to be real quick on yer draw."

Another, a child. "Show us somethin, mister! Somethin cool!" The crowd began to rumble with murmurs of agreement and shouts of 'prove it!' and 'show us!'. Nicholson looked over and Charles, frowning slightly. Charles shrugged as if to say 'well-why-the-hell-not?'. Nicholson sighed, looking down and shaking his head (An old habit of his). Then he looked back up at the crowd and simply said.

"Who wants to volunteer their hat?" The crowd hushed up real quick. For a moment, Nicholson thought nobody would offer, but then a hand rose slowly into the air, holding a wide-brimmed hat of woven straw into the air. Nicholson nodded, tucking the right side of his duster back behind the leather gun belt.

"Toss it up that way," Jesse (Nicholson) said, nodding to the left of the stage where no people stood. "Like yer throwin on a Frisbee."

The man understood, and walked out to the left edge of the crowd, cocking his arm around his stomach to throw the hat. Then, he let it fly.

Every eye in the town turned to Nicholson, and to the gunslinger, time seemed to become thick and slow. His eyes traced the straw hat as it sliced up into the air, silhouetting itself like a flying saucer in the sky. His padded had dropped to the holster at his hip, and slapped against the side of it, and in the same movement, he drew his hand up, feeling his palm slide against the holster and over the smooth wood of the revolver's grip. The claws that tipped his fingers caught the chinks in the grip and pulled it free of the holster. The gun was in his hand, his finger curled around the trigger, and he brought the barrel up to bear with the hat, not moving the gun above his hip. He knew what he was doing, he'd done it a thousand times before. Ever since he was young, whipping an old .9mm from his hip in practice, he had known what he was doing. He pulled the trigger, and the gun leapt madly back, but his arm held still, keeping the Iron at his waist.

The hat landed, and everybody quickly gathered around as the volunteer picked it up from the dust, turning it over in his hands. Jesse holstered his weapon again and looked over to Charles who was staring back with wide and amazed eyes.

"Never. Never in my whole life have I ever seen a man or beast move that fast." Charles proclaimed. "Tha was like a rattlesnake striken out! If the gun wer't in ya hand, I would never believe you even moved!" Nicholson flashed his sideways smile and tipped his hat at the man, keeping contently quiet. It was then that he heard the man who had tossed the hat yell from where it landed.

"Well god damn!" He yelled. "There it is, plain a' day!" He was holding up the hat so the others could see. A large hole had been torn in the brim of the hat.

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The rest of the meet went smoothly, and Nicholson was quickly accepted by the settlers. The mother of the child whom he had saved had offered up a spare shack that was attached to hers for the gunslinger to stay in.

"It's the least ah ken do for yer kindness." She had said.

Cole had led Nicholson quickly away after the congregation and into Charles' bar, where he bought the gunslinger several rounds of drinks and they all talked late into the evening, sharing stories between themselves about the wastes and their lives. At one point, Nicholson was asked to finish the story of how he came to be the shooter he was today, but he told the two that it was a story for another time. Eventually, Charles closed up and said his goodbyes and Cole clapped a hand on

Nicholson's back, walking them in the direction of one of the larger buildings in the truckstop complex. Their path weaved around a bit, as they had both had a bit more than their share of drinks for the night.

"That," Cole said, slurring a bit and pointing toward the building. "Is the best service this shithole has to offer." Nichols glanced over at the merchant and asked, also slurring a little,

"What is it, then?"

"A brothel." Cole replied, as if commenting on the weather.

Nichols burst into chuckles and doubled over, nearly falling before he regained his composure.

"You mean for us to go on there?" Nicholson asked, bearing his teeth in a goofy smile.

"You betchya." Cole said, winking. "May it do ya fine.

The foyer within the main doorway was illuminated a dull red, due to light that was cast from candles, and light bulbs draped in red-stained cloth. It looked like it had once been the inside of a fast-food restaurant, and women sat around the counter and chairs, smoking hand-wrapped tobacco or other narcotics from the wastes. A couple men stood here and there, talking to ladies who chuckled and smiled at their remarks. Cole patted the gunslinger's shoulder and walked to one of them, speaking as he left.

"Find yeself a gal, and have fun friend!" were Cole's last words to him that night. Almost immediately, a woman draped in thinner rags then socially acceptable walked up to the gunslinger, smiling timidly up at him.

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The next morning he made his way out of the building feeling slightly refreshed, but very well rested. He stretched with his hands against his back and strode out toward the center of the settlement, seeking to familiarize himself with the place.

A quick walk about the settlement was really the only thing necessary to map out the town for himself. It was small, but larger than the others he had seen along his way. Directly off the interstate was the old pumping station that used to fuel up trucks that passed by before the war. Beyond that was the wreckage of the convenience store and restaurant, which was pieced together with scavenged boards and metal. One half of the building was reserved for the brothel, and the other half was Charles' bar. The car wash had once stood beside the store, but all that was left of it now was a raised chunk of foundation and a few iron rods, sticking up from the cement like ancient trees.

Shacks and lean-to's spread out from the store in a wide circle, some spaced closer than others. Around the back side of the store was the merchant's row, or stage, where Nicholson had been greeted by the people of the settlement the previous night. In between the shacks were crop fields and water silos (Most of which were dry) that the settlers tended from day to day.

A roped route off the highway and into the town led to a shack that he later learned belonged to Cole, the 'trade manager'. From there, Cole directed traveling merchants to the various locations where they can peddle their wares, and buys supplies for the benefit of the town (like medicine and water), using taxed money from each resident to pay (The night before, in the bar, Nicholson was informed that such taxes would not apply to him, for the time being).

After becoming at least moderately acquainted, Jesse Nicholson struck out toward the middle of the town, ready for his first day on the job.