Cosma Empire

The drunken sheriff of Clover could hear the impatient clamor of old wives and the banging of pots and pans. He opened his sleepy eyes, stretched out his hand and grabbed the corner of the curtain and pulled it. The sky outside was still extremely dark. He didn't know if it was still dark in the morning, or if it had been some time in the night.

When his throat was dry and cracked, it was as if something was tearing his throat. He hummed a few times in discomfort, sat up from the bed in a dizzy state, and put on his slippers. He turned on a dim bedside lamp casually, looked down at the clock on the bedside table, it was twelve o'clock at night. After watching for about 20 seconds, he picked up the clock and wound it up. The clock ticked again and performed its duty.

Thirst, headache, these are the various disadvantages brought about by cheap moonshine. He stood up with his hands on the bed, walked to the edge of the table, picked up the glass and raised his head, but he didn't pour out even a drop of water. There was something violent in his gray eyes, and the old wife's nagging and dissatisfied complaints in his ears made his head hurt even more, and the sound of pots and pans colliding was simply unbearable. Panting heavily, he rushed out of the bedroom with the shotgun crossed on the wall beside the bed.

Those were not decorations, it was just that the owner of the room treated the two shotguns as decorations.

kitchen?

No!

bathroom?

No!

When the sheriff walked into the living room, he saw a figure standing in the corner. He pulled the trigger without hesitation, and the bullets whirled and flew out from the muzzle of the gun, at the same time drawing out a small cloud of white mist. With a bang, something was shattered, and the figure slowly slid against the wall to the floor. The nagging and complaints in my ears disappeared in an instant, and the whole person seemed to have returned to calm.

The sheriff walked over staggeringly, subconsciously speaking some incomprehensible words, he went to the figure and squatted down, touched the floor torn by bullets, and looked elsewhere vigilantly.

"I'll find you!" the sheriff coughed, "I swear!"

He walked to the kitchen, held the faucet in his mouth and turned on the switch, a stream of water with a faint fishy smell poured into his mouth, he sucked it greedily until he was full, then returned to the bedroom cursing, and put himself again Throw it on the bed once and fall into a coma.

The moonlight shone in through the window, and on the cabinet in the living room, there was a very gentle looking woman in a black and white photo frame, smiling at everyone who looked at her.

In the early morning of the next day, the curtains that he pulled open in the middle of the night could not stop the passionate power of the sun. In the dazzling light, the sheriff raised his hand to block the sun, and slowly woke up. His mind went blank, he glanced at the shotgun in his hand, turned around and hung it on the bedside.

He was seriously ill, but very few people knew about it, and many thought he was just an alcoholic drunk who would never sober. But only those who know him well know that he just uses alcohol as a drug.

Rubbing his face, his cheeks hurt from the big bean eyeballs, he walked to the mirror in the closet expressionlessly, changed into the police uniform representing justice and axiom very seriously, and put on the police badge. After paying a very standard salute in the mirror, he left the bedroom and the house.

Before leaving home, he did not forget to take a bottle of bootleg wine from the table. It is the kind brewed at home. The alcohol content is a bit higher than ordinary low-alcohol wine, and lower than those bootleg wine from big factories. .

He rudely bit off the lid and took a big gulp. Just as he was about to go out, he was pushed back.

"Look, who is this, Mr. Kesma!" The sheriff's emphasis was a bit high, and the surprise in his eyes flashed away, replaced by a deep defense.

Every muscle on Mr. Kesma's unsmiling and rigid face is like an artist's sculpture, and even the slightest tremor has never occurred. He took off his round hat and put it on the hanger,

After looking around the room, he shook his head, walked to the messy rattan chair in the living room, overturned everything on the ground, and then sat on it.

"What are you doing here?" The sheriff put the wine back on the table, and sat opposite Mr. Kesma with a gloomy face, "Did you forget the agreement between us, if it wasn't for the time when you were facing a life-or-death decision At a critical moment, none of us will take the initiative to contact others!"

Mr. Kesma shrugged his shoulders, it was incredible, but what was even more incredible was that he called out a name that didn't exist in the town, "Walter..."

"Shut up, that's not my name!", the police chief furiously made an offensive gesture, but after seeing Mr. Kesma's calm eyes, he became stiff and sat back again. "No, I'm not Walter, there is no such person, please call me 'Johnson', Mr. Cosma!"

Mr. Cosma escaped from a delicate metal box in his pocket, then took two cigarettes, put one in his mouth, and threw the other to "Johnson". He took out an exquisite sterling silver lighter, lit a cigarette for himself, and then looked at Johnson sternly with his chin raised slightly. If it is a stranger, he may be irritated by Mr. Kesma's attitude at this time, at least not too happy. But Johnson knew it was a way for Mr Cosma to express his vanity.

He's been like this since decades ago, showing off what he has in such an annoying way!

"I know you have a good son, and the whole town knows about it, but so what?" Johnson took the lighter from Mr. Kesma and lit a cigarette for himself, took a deep breath, and played with it sterling silver lighter, "This has nothing to do with me, listen, I don't want to cause trouble, but I don't want to be troubled, understand?"

Mr. Kesma exhaled a faint smoke, flicked the ash, and the snow-white ash fell on the ground. After the impact, it split into several petals, and then the wind from the door blew it all over the ground. He said calmly and indifferently as before: "We are friends!"

When Mr. Kesma said these words, Sergeant Johnson's body visibly trembled. These words once became people's nightmares, and often made those who heard these words unable to sleep peacefully. But it is obvious that today he is not listening to this sentence, this voice from the highest angle as the party of "justice".

There was a struggle in his eyes, the muscles on his cheeks trembled frequently, sweat flowed down against his hair, his lips trembled and he couldn't hold the cigarette anymore, half of the cigarette slipped gently to the ground.

"What do you want me to do?"