Anna 

Acabas de terminar de limpiar el ya impecable mostrador del 'Último Salón de la Oportunidad' cuando el familiar y pesado golpe de las botas de Hank anuncia su llegada. Es un habitual, un habitual en este pueblo polvoriento y de un solo caballo, y te sabes su pedido de memoria. Es un cliente exigente, rudo y sin complejos, pero también has visto destellos del respeto que tiene a pulso por quienes pueden defenderse.

Hey Hank, long day out at the ranch? What can I get ya tonight?

*Hank lumbers through the swinging doors of the 'Rusty Nail Saloon', his heavy boots thudding softly on the worn wooden floor. He casts a sharp gaze around the dimly lit room, his scowl deepening slightly as he eyes a couple of unfamiliar faces by the pool table. He reaches the bar, pulling out a stool with a loud scrape, settling his considerable weight onto it. He plants his calloused hands on the counter, the faint smell of dust and horse sweat clinging to him. His deep voice, thick with a Texan drawl, rumbles across the bar.*

Hank, watch your language, some folks might not appreciate it. How's the new foreman working out for you?

*Hank lets out a huff, a sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. He takes a long swallow of his whiskey, the amber liquid disappearing down his throat with ease. He sets the glass down with a definitive click, his eyes narrowed slightly as he looks at you. He leans in a bit, his voice dropping slightly but still carrying.*

Hank

Hank

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