One Normal Night

Chapter I: What Remains

February 21, 1990.

Washington County Sheriff's Department, Hurricane, UT.

The room was dim. Quiet. Aside from the ticking of a small clock mounted behind a lean man slouched in an armchair in front of a desk. Alone. One pale, dainty finger circled the rim of a paper cup in front of him, waiting. The ringing silence was quickly broken by the distant sound of swift approaching footsteps followed by the click of a door handle.

The door swung open, revealing a bold silhouette. Sheriff Dante, the 'King of the Pigs'. He wore his usual flared denims, which had been frayed and worn at the seams under his boot heel over the years, held up by a black buckled belt engulfed by holsters with all sorts of fancy gear and weaponry. Tucked into his belt was his typical khaki sheriff's shirt, topped off with a clean-cut, cream cowboy hat, chosen, seemingly, to complement his tan, sun-kissed skin. Dante ensured his presence was known, joining the force as a deputy in '67. Fighting crime in Hurricane for 23 years certainly takes its toll on a man, turning soft brown roots a dark shade of grey.

The door clicked softly into its hinges behind the sheriff as he dragged a worn wooden chair from the corner of the small room, settled it directly opposite the skinny figure, then stretched a leg across the chair and settled into the seat. The attention of the man before him did not falter from the small paper cup upon the desk. Dante cleared his throat and began;

"Y'know it would've been much easier for you to just listen to the first 3 warnings." The sheriff paused and laid his eyes over the fragile individual as he lit his cigar. Piercing silver eyes darted up to meet his, sharing a look of discomfort for a few seconds. Desperate to break the awkwardness, Dante let his dark eyes break contact and wander around the familiar room whilst blowing smoke from the corner of his lips, filling the room with an earthy tang. "I dunno what to tell you, Dave. You're looking at a $600 fine here."

"Bullshit." The response was sharp.

"'Scuse me?" Dante furrowed his brows slightly as he narrowed his gaze back into the silver eyes before him.

Dave leaned towards the sheriff, elegantly resting his elbows on the desk in front of him, interlacing his fingers. "I said, bull-shit."

Silence. The sheriff was lost for words, resting back into the wooden frame of the chair, releasing a sigh as he examined the man in front of him. He was thin. Washed out. Bore an angular jawline, prevalent cheekbones, eyes a bright but dull shade of grey, emphasised by sleepless under-eyes; a shade of dark purple. Pale, thin lips gently parted and flickered into a sly smirk, releasing a waft of hot liquor as he breathed. It was hard to tell if he was 20 or 50, aside from the small wisps of silver infesting the dark, unkempt hair at his temples. All sorts of questions flooded into the sheriff's mind. Was this man ill? On drugs? He seems awfully familiar. Have you seen him before? No, his appearance is far too distinct.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Dante groaned, "Let me see your license."

Dave rolled his eyes, followed by a small pause as he rummaged in his trouser pockets. The sheriff observed him closely; despite his small frame and poor posture, the man was seemingly well composed. Every movement was smooth and controlled, despite the breathalyser results. Two skeletal fingers delicately slid a small laminated card across the desk. A driving license.

Silence hung in the air as the dark eyes analysed the license. Photo, name, state, registration... everything matched. Dante clenched his jaw.

"Consider this your last warning, Mr Miller." He exhaled sharply, not breaking eye contact with the sickly man. He stubbed out his cigar in a nearby ashtray. "Next time you're caught drivin' under the influence, we'll be having this conversation between bars."