“Remember that freak of an Earth Spirit obsessed with stealin’ our hard-earned emeralds some 40 years ago?” Reminisced Nick.

“You expect me to know how many spirits we saw down there?” Chuckled Pistol.

“Not a chance you forget this one brother. The one with the droopin’ face and long arms? He’s the monster that got Finley down under. Green Mother lay his soul to rest.” Muttered Nick, shaking his glass.

“Grovine we called it.” Agreed Pistol, stroking his long white beard.

“Right. Nearly ripped your arm off grabbing Finley and sliced my belly and face clean open. Bloody mess worth ages but it ain’t even the worst of what this company’s been through.” Laughed Nick nervously.

“You left the miner’s life quiet and early yet your strength and your scars rival ours. What did the royals do to you?” Observed Nick in a fleeting moment of silence.

“Nothing but the luxury of getting me out of the mines.” Replied Pistol sternly.

“Rightly so. You’re bayou of a train car argues for a simpler life.” Taunted Nick.

“Anyway, who drives the train when the conductor is here serving drinks!?” Continued taunting Hogswind.

“This train is connected to me in a different way. She and I are the same. It’s kinda like having two sets of eyes, with my beating heart as the burning spirit coal fueling this train. I can see what happens in and out of the train like you would see your arm should you press it with a finger. ” Tried explaining Pistol.

“Oi, Better felt, than said Pistol.” Muttered Nick with confusion.

“Indeed.” Agreed Pistol with a smirk.

“Old age has treated us well dear friend.” Cheered Nick, raising his glass up towards Pistol.

“Aye. And it will continue to do so.” Toasted Pistol , refilling their drinks with yet more mead.

Nick brushed his beard of the bit of mead that had dripped down from his mouth and returned to the ranks of his men with rowdy and collective laughter.

Men of all sizes argued as to who was braver, who was smarter, and how everyone was practically raised together in the mines with Pistol occasionally lending an ear into the fray.

“Creature nearly burnt my overalls completely off. The third pair this month I think.” Blurted a voice.

“Oi, the beast almost singed my last eyebrow too!? Already got my hair. My wife said she’d leave me if this eyebrow disappeared too.” Echoed another chuckling voice through the train cart.

“Cept, least now you have the same amount of eyebrows she started with!” Snorted yet another drunken patron alongside a chorus of laughter wrapping just around him.

As surrounding conversations flew in and out from around Pistol, he couldn’t help but take a moment to himself and appreciate his old company and how he came to be a conductor. He grabbed one of the many rags over his shoulder and polished some of the mirrors embedded within the walls of the train. Pistol reflected on Whisky Sunday; a once modest train with a simple purpose of transporting government personnel between the spirit and material world. Now with the help of engineers of both human and spirit origins, the Whisky Sunday has become one of the world’s greatest creations, and Pistol, the conductor of a Midnight Train.

“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she Pistol?” Muttered Sarah, nearly winking at Pistol’s reflection in the mirror’s.

Pistol nodded his head like a proud father. He looked at the reflection of Sarah beside him and a strange sense of relief fell upon him.

“Whisky Sunday is far more popular now than ever. We should prepare to never see nights like this again.” Pondered Pistol.

“Night’s like what? Normal people. Or in this case, beasts of men.” Teased Sarah, crinkling her nose.

“A beast is what is required to be down in the Conkle. Obedience is key to survival.” Confessed Pistol.

“What’s a joke? I’ve yet to hear even one.” Quipped Sarah.

“You-” Tried correcting Pistol.

“I don't know everything you’ve been through but… I know you care Pistol and I love you too.” Corrected Sarah just as quick.

Sarah nodded her head as though she was agreeing to what she had just said and snuck out a smile from Pistol, long enough for her to remember.

Whisky Sunday appeared as a beacon of life striding through a cold starry night. Bright beams of light from within the train's generously sized windows pierced deep into the thick greenery and white deserts on the train's nighttime journey back home into the bustling city of New Dwarden. Occasional travelers would wave the train down as if welcoming it homeward while the sound of laughter and the smell of sizzling meat from the train would wave back. Travelers of all kinds would sneak a glance into the mysterious Whisky Sunday and would catch glimpses of its insides. Stories from onlookers would describe the train as having twenty carts lined up from head to tail in a personalized paradise for its often royal passengers. Some would say the train doesn’t need tracks but instead needs only the manifestation of memories of its riders to get to its destination. Rumors would even describe the train as a transport for the spirit world that awaits those who are dead and are in crossing. However, Pistol dismisses the rumors in favor of his own truth. The train is exactly how long it needs to be and serves those it chooses however it chooses.

The Whisky Sunday wore a generous amount of large oil lamps and shrubs of greenery growing straight from the walls and floors. In addition, portraits of sea monsters covered the entirety of the metallic ceiling above. Regardless of how many times the cart changed, Pistol knew that the liquor never did. There is always time for a moment’s drink. Pistol made sure his passengers had a chance to admire his collection of rare and exotic aged drinks -despite their often unique shapes and sizes. Only on truly special days would someone be allowed to drink from Pistol’s collection, though Sarah - as many times as she goes back and forth from shelf to shelf- cannot recall the last time she had seen someone take part in Pistol’s personal collection. Even so, while the train’s selection of drinks was something to marvel at -to Pistol’s dismay- the kitchen was its biggest attraction. Rumors of a fighting chef running the kitchen behind the giant curtains circulated the train like the smell of baked bread over a morning dew. However, no one but Pistol and Sarah knows of the chef’s true identity, only of an alleged chef who fights any rowdy bunches in the stead of Pistol or Sarah should the situation occur. Murmurs of his identity could always be heard sometime during a passenger’s ride but the speculation only lasts until the chef’s specialty of charcoal roasted food inevitably appears on a long wooden tray before drooling eyes. While Whiskey’s Sunday’s menu is relatively small, Pistol knows too well that the food and drink speak for themselves as patrons clamor for the signature Whiskey Dish; a dish consisting of glazed plump fire shrimp over a bed of spicy pulled barbecue pork. Most order it with a pitcher of signature creamy rum, bitter yet satisfying mead, or the gassy Grog. As soon as the kitchen turns on its flame, passengers are never too far and for Pistol; tonight was supposed to be no different.

“Snap out of it!” Hollered Sarah.

“Four drinks and your head shoots straight into the clouds! Is that not embarrassing for you!?” Scolded Sarah in passing.

“I don’t need to prove myself with drink.” Laughed Pistol.

Between the murmuring, shouting, and even the occasional raised fist came a silence that wedged itself into the train like a strange out-of-body dream. Rain unlike any other began to pour. A downpour of water slammed the train like ice-covered needles. An eerie wind chill smothered the train like a cold wet touch in the dead of night. Any sort of banter came to a screeching halt as the train car itself grew chaotic with noise. Suddenly, there was a large black silhouette outside the train car door furthest from the bar. Everyone watched as the crack of the sliding door widened and the moonlight squeezed through. Time came to a crawl as everyone watched a large creature grow from a pile of strange pulsating bubbles.

A blue glossy hand emerged, then a slimy webbed foot, until finally there stood a giant blue frog about the size of an average man at the end of a dark aisle. Heavy rain intensified with every step the creature plopped deeper into the aisle. An absent black marble gaze restrained the train. Not a sound arose from a single body. The spirit appeared fixated on the bar on the edge of the train, never acknowledging a single person on its way there with so much as a blink. No one even knew if it even could. As the moonlight revealed more of the creature, Pistol observed how it wore a simple buttoned-up yellow raincoat with a matching overly sized hat. The hat sparkled with thickened bubbles as its grooves led the bubbles to ultimately fall onto the ground like balls of popping wet sand. A generous layer of mucus followed the creature while it’s foggy green skin gave it a unique sort of polish. Still, Pistol struggled to make heads or tails of the creature as spirits are not known to wear human clothing, let alone share a train with other humans. Greenery of all kinds grew in place of the red carpet covering the aisle while thick slime oozed into the many cracks of the wood. Pistol simply continued to observe the creature as it propped itself onto the barstool.

“No one and nothing has ever snuck onto any Midnight Train before.” Muttered Pistol, gripping the bar just in front of him.

“Anyone on this train is meant to be on this train. That’s what you said right?” Mumbled the Spirit, his coat bursting open.