Despite the minimal light from the small windows and the two gas can lamps by the card table, each particle of dust seemed illuminated. They would sway almost melodically when a new patron came in, wildly swinging the door back on its rusty hinges
It was full of regulars at the point when it all broke out.
The bar, or saloon as it said over the door, was unassuming in structure, and in form, but there was a charm nonetheless. A small, wooden building of no more than a 1000 square feet, the narrow bar sat to your left as you entered, it stretched about halfway up the room. At the far end there were two swinging doors leading to a small store room, with a small painted wood door at the far end leading to a toilet and a sink.
The bar itself was salvaged redwood, or some combination of dark wood. The small collection of regulars, mostly whiskey drinkers, were at their usual stools, several of which rocked as the men drank, when everything started.
Beyond the six barstools, there were two tables that sat four people a piece. All wooden, darker maybe oak. Again, several of the chairs were missing portions of the legs or had deteoriating seats. These were rarely used, as the saloon rarely had more than that six regulars and when it did, most preferred to stand.
There was, however, one booth near the card table at the very back right from the front door, it was also rarely occupied but this night, a young couple had been sitting there for a few hours.
The regulars were a rather rough bunch. One of the regulars, a 40 something stout man who spent most days doing odd jobs for people in town, was snoozing at the bar. His drooling dripped and puddled slightly while his pilsner went flat.
Another, a mid 50s lean store clerk was chatting with a woman who had come in with another customer. He had salt and pepper hair and wore a navy blue work shirt with bright orange reflectors on the shoulders. His fifth beer went quickest, his pace seemed to increase with each lager.
This third man, early 40s with dark hair and dark eyes, had brought a dozen or so people from his job at a brewery nearby. There were very few "white collar" jobs in and around town and the few people who had them did not live in town nor would they come to that bar.
By this point in the evening, the couple in the booth had been there a few hours by themselves. The brewery group mingled with the regulars, who tried to flirt with the three female workers. All three had names instructive of their positions like Mable and Rosie.
One of the few regulars who was not mingling was a late 30s musician who sat at the far end of the bar, near the bathroom. He had an electric guitar propped against the bar.
He'd been there the longest at this point, having wandered in shortly after opening. A few empty beer glasses were scattered around him and he occasionally strummed a short riff, when it wasn't propped against the bar.
He'd chat with the small bartender about his guitar and local music. Barkeep Barry, as he was called, loved this patron most of all. He was a dependable good time. He'd roll in just after opening most days and take the same chair by the swinging doors to the bathroom, usually keeping to himself except to order a beer or strum something out on the guitar.
The barkeep kept asking him what he called his guitar.
"What do you mean what do I call it?"
"Well it's gotta have a name. Anything that pretty, that makes that kind of sound has gotta have a name," Barry would say. He'd ask every day at some point, but no name ever felt right so the two men would simply smirk and continue on. The musician drinking in contented solitude while Barkeep Barry tended to the regulars and the stragglers.
Everyone was sufficiently lubricated when the fight broke out. The couple in the booth started getting louder, the woman was laying into the boyfriend about staring at another woman.
"Baby i wasn't even looking, I don't even like skinny broads!"
"FUCK YOU," she said as she raised to slap him.
He grabbed her wrist from across the table. She slid quickly out of the booth and he followed, still holding her wrist. She swung her right foot and connected with his groin. He yelped like a kicked dog and let go of her wrist.
At this point all the patrons had turned to watch the show. The cigarette smoke was the only thing moving other than the two lovers.
She walked towards the door and as she got closer the man, still holding his groin, threw a highball glass full of whiskey at her back.
"FUCK YOU LUCILLE" he screamed. The glass missed her by a country mile and smashed on one of the smoker's stomach. He dropped the cig, and quickly closed the gap on the man.
Lucille had jumped out of the way, knocking over one of the gas lamps in the process. The gas poured out onto the floor.
At this point the smoker and the boyfriend were in full combat, with the smoker getting the best of the other man thus far. His smoking companion went over to offer some support before being grabbed on the shoulder by one of the brewery worker's grizzled paws. The second smoker wheeled around and swung on the brewer, missing wildly. The brewer lunged with his shoulder, taking the second smoker down and one of the barstools with them.
Now the fight escalated to a full brawl, with brewers shattered glasses on regulars. Someone sucker punched the bartender as he went for the .38 under the counter.
The gas slowly seeped out of the lamp, inching ever closer.
At this point the musician, the only one free from violence, quickly looked for an escape route. He knew there was a window big enough for one, maybe two people in the bathroom and split with intention.
The gas puddled around the cigarette, and ignited, flames wrapped around the wood panels, swallowing up each barstool in the contortions.
Full panic broke out as the patrons that weren't fighting began to look for a way out.
Lucille yelped and ran for the door, as did a half dozen or so of the other patrons.
The smoker was straddling the boyfriend, smashing his face repeatedly with any empty glass he could find.
The musician was halfway out of the window when he realized he forgot the guitar.
He shimmied back through the window, choking on the flames as he fought his way back to the stool.
He grabbed the guitar and looked around to see if anyone was left.
Everyone appeared to have made it out but the flames were swallowing the booth now, melting the cheap leather and crackling as it engulfed more of the dry wood. The whole place was a tinderbox.
He got the guitar and moved towards the bathroom.
The bartender, Big Barkeep Barry, on a count of his small frame, he was barely a head taller than the bar. At this point the musician realized he was still unconscious behind the bar top. He propped the guitar near the bathroom and crawled, on account of the smoke, to Barry.
The crackling flames seemed to bare down on both men. He gripped Barry underneath the shoulders. Tugging him towards the bathroom.
The flames had consumed all the tables, the booth and was making it's way towards the card table and the other gas lamp. Any accelerant would be enough to trap them both.
Barry was still unconscious as the musician slid him and the navy blue electric guitar out of the bathroom window. He shimmied through as the flames lapped at the swinging doors near the urinal.
The musician dove head first and crawled out to Barry. The other patrons had gathered a few hundred yards away.
Barry was coming to; bloodied but seemingly fine.
The smoker and the boyfriend had disappeared, as had Lucille and half of the brewers.
Everyone stood there in silence, listening to the crackling wood, for what felt like an hour before Barry started to laugh and looked around.
"Hey Riley, what're you gonna name that thing?" Barry said, pointing to the guitar.
"Lucille seems about right"