The drunken sheriff in Alfalfa Town echoed in the ears of the old wife's impatient noise and the sound of pounding pots and pans. He opened his sleepy eyes, reached out and grabbed the corner of the curtain, and the sky outside the house was still dark. He didn't know if it was morning before dawn or if it was some time at night.

As his throat cracked, it looked like something was tearing at his throat, and he snorted uncomfortably, and sat up from the bed and put on his slippers. I casually turned on a dim bedside lamp and looked down at the table clock on the bedside table, it was twelve o'clock in the evening. After watching it for about twenty seconds, he picked up the clock, wound it tight, and once again ticked to do its duty.

Thirsty, headaches, these are the disadvantages of cheap moonshine, he stood up with his hands on the bed, walked to the table, picked up the glass, and looked up, but did not pour out a single drop of water. There was something irritable spreading in his gray eyes, and the nagging and dissatisfied complaints of his old wife in his ears made his head hurt even more, and the sound of pots and pans colliding was simply unbearable. He gasped for breath and rushed out of the bedroom with the shotgun hanging crosswise on the wall at the head of the bed.

It wasn't an ornament, it was just that the owner of the room had treated the two shotguns as if they were ornaments.

Kitchen?

No!

Lavatory?

No!

When the sheriff walked to the living room, he saw a figure standing in the corner, and without hesitation, he pulled the trigger, and the bullet whirled and whistled out of the muzzle, and at the same time drew a small white mist. With a thud, something shattered, and the figure slowly slid against the wall to the floor. The nagging and complaining in the ears disappeared in an instant, and the whole person seemed to return to calm.

The sheriff staggered over, subconsciously saying something incomprehensible, he walked over to the figure and crouched down, touched the floor torn by the bullets, and looked at the other place alertly.

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

He went to the kitchen, took the faucet in his mouth and turned on the switch, and a stream of water with a faint fishy smell poured into his mouth, and he gulped and sucked greedily until he was full, and then he returned to the bedroom with a curse, and threw himself into bed again, falling into a coma.

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

Early the next morning, the curtains that he had torn open in the middle of the night could not stop the power of the sun's enthusiasm, and in the dazzling light, the sheriff raised his hand to block the sunlight and slowly woke up. His mind went blank, he glanced at the shotgun in his hand, turned and hung on the head of the bed.

He had a very serious illness, but few people knew about him, and many thought he was an alcoholic drunk who would never wake up. But only those who knew him well knew that he was using alcohol as a drug.

Rubbing his face, his cheeks ached, and he walked to the mirror of the wardrobe expressionlessly, changed into a police uniform that represented justice and justice, put on a police badge, and saluted a very standard salute to the mirror, leaving the bedroom and leaving the house.

Before leaving home, he hadn't forgotten to take a bottle of private wine from the table, the one brewed at home, a little higher than ordinary low-alcohol wines, and a little lower than those moonshiners from big factories.

Rudely bit open the lid and poured a big mouthful, and just as he was about to go out, he was squeezed back.

"Look, who is this, Mr. Kersma!", the sheriff's emphasis was a little high, and the surprise in his eyes flashed away, replaced by a deep defensiveness.

Every muscle on Mr. Kersma's unsmiling and rigid face was like an artist's carving, and there was not even a slight trembling. He took off his round hat and put it on the hanger, looked around the room, shook his head, walked to the messy wicker chair in the living room, tossed everything to the floor, and sat down.

"What are you doing here?", the sheriff put the wine back on the table and sat down opposite Mr. Kersma with a gloomy face, "Have you forgotten the agreement between us, if it weren't for the moment when we were faced with a life-and-death decision, none of us would take the initiative to contact others!"

It was incredible that Mr. Kersma actually shrugged his shoulders, 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 sheriff was furious and had already made an offensive gesture, but after seeing Mr. Kersma's calm eyes, the whole person became stiff and sat back down, "No, I'm not Walt, there is no such person, please call my name 'Johnson', Mr. Kersma!"

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

That's how he has been since decades ago, showing off everything he has in this 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. Kersma's hand and lit a cigarette for himself, took a deep breath, and played with the sterling silver lighter in his hand, "It has nothing to do with me, listen, I don't want to get in trouble, but I don't want to get in trouble either, understand?"

Mr. Kersma spat out a faint smoke and flicked the ash, which fell to the ground and shattered into several petals after impact, and then the wind from the door blew it to the ground. He said calmly and indifferently as before: "We are friends!"

Sheriff Johnson's body trembled visibly when Mr. Kersma said this, which had become a nightmare for a time, often making it impossible for those who heard it to fall asleep. But it is clear that today he is not listening to this phrase from the supreme point of view as a party of "justice".

There was a struggle in his eyes, the muscles in his cheeks were shaking frequently, sweat was running down his hair, his lips trembled and he couldn't hold the cigarette in his mouth, and half of the cigarette gently slid to the ground.

"What do you want me to do?"