In my time the vehicles would be cars and trucks, he thought. ‘Wonder if the saloon has anything to do with the ‘Rock Bottom Brewery’ back home,...�� he asked aloud. ‘Food first and then maybe a beer. A saloon should be a good place to gather some information.’ They were a few people in Rosita’s café. A cowhand or two, two old men, and a man sitting at a table against the back wall. He had a pistol in a tied down holster on his right hip and what looked like a double barrel 10 gauge coach gun on. This guy had ideas of revisiting some c***dhood event where he had been fucked in the ass by one of his friends on a camping trip and turned into his sex slave for the week. A traumatic event at the time that had somehow left some frenzied desire to have it happen again to him. He was lusting to repeat his trauma in some way. I don't think he realized that, but from our conversation is was obvious to me. I imagine that event, although he saw it as an incredible sexual fantasy now, had fucked up. More

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