Sloan, Nevada fluttered like the emerald frond of a sago palm.
They put on music best suited for the middle of the night in the middle of the afternoon. This made the room, already quite small, feel even smaller.
A dangerous alto sax shook the walls. Each note dripped a dark promise of imminent despair. The kind which struck him as unavoidable.
A tall woman with pale skin handed him a Coors Banquet. In a few minutes, the lemon-striped wallpaper in the saloon in Sloan, Nevada began to wobble.
