The coffee isn't good. It's mediocre. However, it is coffee, and he does need his morning buzz. He could have just made a pot at home this morning but, from the second his wife woke up to the time he walked out the door, all he had heard was her incessant clucking about how he works too much and how the house is never clean and how her bloomers are too tight. Sure, homemade coffee would have been better than the swill from the diner, but did he really want to put up with his wife all morning?

He hadn't heard so much complaining since Packrat Palooka got dragged into his store, and that was saying quite a lot.

The waitress looks down at him, tilts her head in that "clueless bird" sort of way, then leans over the counter. Her blouse is so low cut that he can practically see all of her chest feathers, but he tries not to stare. He's a happily married Clakker, after all. Well, semi-happily married. Well, he's happy when his wife's not around.

"Somethin' wrong, Ol' Jim?" she chirps, and he cringes. Old Jim. He hates the fact that people tag that onto his name, like he's not already aware that he's the oldest geezer in Buzzarton. In all honesty, he'd prefer to be referred to as "chronologically advanced," but that doesn't seem to have the same ring to it as "old." Hell, if he were a Grubb, they'd refer to him as "elder" or some such, and revere him as a well of knowledge. That would be a lot more tolerable than having a constant reminder of your mortality casually tacked onto your name.

"Nah, Betty, I'm fine," he groans. His eyes suddenly light up as he asks, "You think I could throw in an order of wheat waffles on this, eh? I'm a mite bit hungry."

She nods and waddles toward kitchen, and calls back the order to some burly guy in a very emasculating apron, complete with frills and cursive lettering that spells out "Peck the Cook." He doesn't seem too pleased about his job, his feathers matted with sweat and his eyes tired and bloodshot. Likely, he had a hangover. That wasn't too uncommon amongst the younger crowd. He repeats the order back at the waitress, groggy and lacking any hint of enthusiasm.

Jim sighs and swirls his coffee. He's going to be lucky if his waffles aren't burnt to ashes, he bets.

That's when he hears it: clucking behind him. It's loud enough to drown out the morning chit-chat of the regular patrons, and shrill enough to make his eardrums feel as though they'll burst. He sticks a feather in his ear to make sure he's not bleeding, then turns and looks over his shoulder to see what all the hubbub is about.

There's a woman, a socialite from the looks of it, though he can't figure out why the hell somebody like that would be anywhere near Buzzarton. She was probably en route to New Yolk City, and had stopped to grab a bite to eat. She's all primped and proper, dolled up in her Sunday best like this old middle-of-nowhere diner constitutes formal dress. She'd be attractive if not for her grating voice, which makes him think of talons on a chalk board.

"Didjer hear? Didjer hear?"

She's talking to the man in a top hat across the table from her, but she may as well be talking to everybody in the damned room. More than a couple of people share Jim's expression of agony and irritation but, ever stubborn, not a single person budges from their breakfast. Hell, he has nothing but mediocre coffee and the prospect of below-average waffles, and he still can't force his fat ass to move.

"Didjer hear what happened in New Yolk City?" the woman continues. "Doc Vykker is dead, and they think a steef killed him!"

A steef? There ain't no steef around these parts. Had everyone gone mad? First that bounty hunter had stood right in front of him and promised Sekto a steef, and now there are rumors that that quack of a surgeon was killed by one? That Vykker likely got his degree out of a cereal box, and with the reputation he had it was far more likely one of his botched patients decided to show him what's what.

In fact, didn't that fellow who took the steef bounty have business to attend to with the good doctor? The rumor mill seemed to believe so, with countless folks that had family in Gizzard Gulch insisting that their cousins knew a man who thought he saw that strange fellow waltz into doc's office. Knowing the temperament of the big guy, it was likely the doc met his end at his hands. He'd probably tried to rip him off and ended up ripped in half.

The man she's talking to scoffs at her, though he uses his inside voice and Jim can't make out what he says. What he can make out is the woman, flustered, squawking, "I swear on my momma's grave, I swear it! A steef killed Doc Vykker, and you wanna know the kicker? They say the steef had been prowlin' 'round every city from Gizzard Gulch to New Yolk City! Say he was posin' as some right proper fella! Can you imagine that? That steef was smart 'nuff to pretend to be people!"

"Now where in the hell did you hear a thing like that? First of all, ain't no more steef 'round here than there's ghosts and goblins. Second of all, posin' as a right proper fella? You crazy? That's like sayin' a sleg put on some drawers and learned to talk! Heck, even if a steef did figure out how to speak, don't you think we'd notice if one just came waltzin' in? They ain't exactly hard to miss."

It's Betty's voice, the waitress standing there with Jim's waffles, a hand on her hip and her head jerking from side to side. She sits the plate down in front of him, and Jim's relieved to see that they actually look edible, despite being so drowned in syrup that they're likely to dissolve into paste. Unfortunately, he's pretty sure he's lost his appetite.

His face is pale, and the sound of two squalling females arguing from opposite ends of the diner fills the air.

"Maybe they're smarter than we think! Them Grubbs certainly think so!"

"Them Grubbs are dim as a two watt bulb, bub! Ever notice that it's always their corpses strung up to dry on the roadsides?"

"If I'm lyin', I'm dyin'! I know what I heard and I heard that a steef..."

"Yeah, well I heard that fuzzles can fly, and that ain't true neither."

Jim clears his throat, Betty realizes she's being too loud, and she shoots one final glare to the gossipy woman before retreating to the other end of the counter to wait on a new customer. The louder Clakker just keeps clucking, going on and on about the steef rumor, before moving on to the next juicy bit of news. Her voice soon quiets, the indecipherable drone of the customers dominating yet again.

And Jim just sits there, staring at his waffles.

Maybe I knows where to find one. For twenty grand.

Jim can remember the last bounty hunter in town better than any of the others he had ever met. That face was engraved into his mind the first time he ever stepped into the Buzzarton Bounty Store. It wasn't that he felt anything special towards the guy, it was just the fact that he was so odd. Most of the guys who came in were Clakkerz, chatty braggarts who loved to spread rumors as much as the next person.

But the last bounty hunter? He wasn't any species of folk that Jim had ever seen in his life. He was tall, slender, and covered in fur. His arms fell past his knees, and his hands were as big as his head. For a while, Jim had joked behind his back that he looked kind of like a living mop, what with his long hair and bearded face, though he'd have never made such jokes in front of the big guy. He had a short temper, and was all pointy and muscular to boot.

He had never given his name. He wouldn't give his name. The townsfolk had taken to just calling him "stranger." He didn't hang around to chat, he never said anything more than he had to. Sometimes, when he'd come in to cash in a bounty, he'd just look at Jim and grunt. Then, just as silently as he came in, he'd take the moolah and the poster for the next job, and leave.

As big and bad ass as he behaved, part of him always seemed like he was worried. Sometimes, he looked downright terrified. Rumors had been flying that he was a patient of Doc, so Jim had always assumed his behavior could be chalked up to some sort of terminal illness. He couldn't help but to feel his heart sink every time the guy came in, bedraggled and cut up and obviously exhausted, usually still bleeding from where a bullet nicked him or an outlaw stabbed him. Jim could remember telling his wife about it, and his wife saying, "Welp, maybe he knows he ain't got no time left, so he's tryin' to speed things up."

That had got to him.

That had been Jim's motivation to dig up the highest paying bounty he could find for the guy, or what he assumed would pay the most. It didn't exactly have anything on it about the reward, but it was a job issued by the richest guy on the river. Besides, it was an easy enough task, nothing that'd put the stranger in danger. It was only a request for a steef head. The hardest part would be finding one, since they hadn't been seen in their neck of the woods for years, but once it was found? All it took was a well-aimed shot.

Jim had figured that maybe, just maybe, if the stranger could name his price, he could get enough money to maybe cover treatment from a doctor who wasn't a lunatic. Maybe he'd abandon the suicide mission. He liked the idea of helping the poor boy out as, in his old age, he had become significantly softer than other Clakkerz.

He could remember showing the stranger the flier. He could remember the look in his eyes as he asked how much it paid. The poor guy looked like he was struggling with the demon on his shoulder, like accepting such a simple bounty was something to get worked up about. When Jim had dialed up Sekto so they could work out a price, he just got angrier and angrier.

Growling. Snarling. Tough-guy talk that masked a slight shakiness in his voice as he implied he knew good and well where to find a steef. He had pulled out a stack of papers from under his poncho when they were discussing the reward, with him making a firm demand for twenty grand. Sekto apparently agreed, he hung the phone up, he slid it back to Jim. He should have been happy, right?

But his eyes? His face? He was devastated. When Jim had given him directions to Mongo Valley, the stranger had seemed completely disoriented. His last words before he walked out of the door, and out of Buzzarton, had been uttered with a bitter laugh, almost like it was some kind of dark inside joke.

Heh. Maybe I'll luck out and find a steef on the way.

It wasn't until later when Jim had looked a little closer at the poster, at the photo of the steef, that he began to see how familiar it looked. The ears were high on its head, just like the stranger. It had long hair and a scruffy face, just like the stranger. Pointy teeth in the front and flat teeth in the back, just like the stranger. It's big, piercing eyes were set in the front of a weird face that seemed to be a mix of cat and goat. Of course, it was just like the stranger.

Jim had laughed, had said it was impossible. Steef had four legs, the stranger had two. Steef had horns, the stranger had none. Steef were animals, the stranger was a person just like anyone else in Buzzarton.

Say he was posin' as some right proper fella! Can you imagine that? That steef was smart 'nuff to pretend to be people!

Jim rubs his head and looks down at his waffles blankly. The stranger was rumored to be a patient of Doc Vykker. Vykkers did a lot of twisted things to their patients. Maybe, somehow, that two-bit surgeon had managed to turn an animal into a normal, thinking man. Maybe complications with that was what was killing the stranger.

Or maybe they hadn't even done the surgery yet. Maybe the stranger was just scrawny, weak, and scared of being hunted down. Maybe that's why he was so worried all the time, why he took on so many high-risk bounties. Perhaps he needed the money to make himself "normal."

Of course, if that was the case, then that would mean he was smart enough to come up with this plan on his own. He'd have always been smart enough to talk. And if he wasn't even a prime example of a steef, what with his lack of horns and his tiny stature, then chances are that the steef before him were even more cunning.

Which would mean steef were sentient. They were people. That would mean that all this time, the Clakkerz and Wolvarks and Sekto and all the rest had been hunting people.

Jim chokes.

He pushes his plate to the guy next to him, who stares at him dumbly as he leaves enough moolah on the counter to cover his food and the tip. He doesn't want to be here anymore. Jim wants to go home, talk to his wife, and ask her what she thinks about all of this before he goes full blown conspiracy theorist about a guy he barely knows. He's old, his mind could be running away with him.

Still...

"Hey, lady!" he calls. Every woman in the diner looks at him, so he points out the gossip-monger in the back. "You!"

She seems shocked but, blinking slowly, clucks, "Yes?"

"Goin' back to that steef thingy. Didjer catch any wind of them shootin' it, or did it get away?"

"I heard it ran right through New Yolk City," she responds, happy that somebody believes her about her previous story. "Everyone was shootin' at it."

"Yeah, but did anybody actually shoot him... er, it?"

She shakes her head, answering with a sad, "No, sir. It got away as quick as lightnin'."

Jim laughs to himself and smiles, nodding a thank-you. He's happily whistling as he exits the diner, stepping out into the blistering heat. Waddling toward his home, he pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and sticks it in the corner of his beak.

"Figgered. If the Dandy Digger Gang, Jo Momma, Meagly, Packrat, and all th'rest can't kill the kid, I'm purdy sure that a bunch of feathery fat bastards never stood a chance. Heh."