Dan the Man
Jun 4th, 2004, 01:09:07 PM
<center><font size=-3>
Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.
I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.
Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.
I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.
And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.
Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.
Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black.</font></center>
Dan stood in the doorway to Yog's Bar & Grill, and brushed a strand of grey back from his aged face. The wind from outside undid his work in a moment, and he resigned on rectifying the situation.
Sharp eyes panned from right to left. They sat in stark contrast to the rest of the man's face; alive and fierce, like they belonged to a hawk. Even the shadow of his own silhouette could barely contain their gleam.
As the door guard approached, Dan looked down, moving his hands over the buttons of his jacket. Much like his face, his hands showed the signs of hard years, yet they were as deftly suited as his eyes, working over the buttons with finesse as he unbuttoned each from the top down. The task done, Dan withdrew the sides of his long black duster, to reveal his sidearms.
In the diminished light of the bar, they still gleamed, as fierce as the shootist's eyes. Even at rest in their leather holsters, the pistols almost begged to be drawn and fired. The ivory grips were beset on either side by a silver Death's Head, a grimacing skull staring through the guard and onward to Eternity.
The guard paused, suddenly on edge as to the shootist's intentions.
The wind blew through the doorway, casting Dan's grey locks about in a wild manner. His unblinking eyes met the guard's own, sharp as ever. His hands remained at the sides of his coat, drawn back, but perched perilously over the grips of his elegant shooting irons.
Seconds that seemed like minutes passed, and the guard's hand unconciously began to gravitate to his own weapon.
The wind blew again, cooling the sheen of sweat that had accumulated on the guard's brow. Dan remained fixed as a statue, with only his hair blowing unhindered in the breeze. A moment later, his dry lips parted slightly...
"Are you gonna take those guns, or whistle Dixie?"
Dan's eyes narrowed, and the guard reluctantly approached, unsure if the question was even an invitation. He slowly palmed the grip of each pistol, and drew them slowly from Dan's holsters in unison.
Well, you wonder why I always dress in black,
Why you never see bright colors on my back,
And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.
I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his crime,
But is there because he's a victim of the times.
I wear the black for those who never read,
Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
About the road to happiness through love and charity,
Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.
Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held back,
Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.
I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could have been,
Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.
And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
Believen' that the Lord was on their side,
I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
Believen' that we all were on their side.
Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
And things need changin' everywhere you go,
But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things right,
You'll never see me wear a suit of white.
Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
And tell the world that everything's OK,
But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black.</font></center>
Dan stood in the doorway to Yog's Bar & Grill, and brushed a strand of grey back from his aged face. The wind from outside undid his work in a moment, and he resigned on rectifying the situation.
Sharp eyes panned from right to left. They sat in stark contrast to the rest of the man's face; alive and fierce, like they belonged to a hawk. Even the shadow of his own silhouette could barely contain their gleam.
As the door guard approached, Dan looked down, moving his hands over the buttons of his jacket. Much like his face, his hands showed the signs of hard years, yet they were as deftly suited as his eyes, working over the buttons with finesse as he unbuttoned each from the top down. The task done, Dan withdrew the sides of his long black duster, to reveal his sidearms.
In the diminished light of the bar, they still gleamed, as fierce as the shootist's eyes. Even at rest in their leather holsters, the pistols almost begged to be drawn and fired. The ivory grips were beset on either side by a silver Death's Head, a grimacing skull staring through the guard and onward to Eternity.
The guard paused, suddenly on edge as to the shootist's intentions.
The wind blew through the doorway, casting Dan's grey locks about in a wild manner. His unblinking eyes met the guard's own, sharp as ever. His hands remained at the sides of his coat, drawn back, but perched perilously over the grips of his elegant shooting irons.
Seconds that seemed like minutes passed, and the guard's hand unconciously began to gravitate to his own weapon.
The wind blew again, cooling the sheen of sweat that had accumulated on the guard's brow. Dan remained fixed as a statue, with only his hair blowing unhindered in the breeze. A moment later, his dry lips parted slightly...
"Are you gonna take those guns, or whistle Dixie?"
Dan's eyes narrowed, and the guard reluctantly approached, unsure if the question was even an invitation. He slowly palmed the grip of each pistol, and drew them slowly from Dan's holsters in unison.