GOOD NIGHT MIKE
A Tale of Las Vegas, New Mexico
A Short Western Scene
INT. HOLLIDAY'S SALOON PARLOR - NIGHT
A young parlor woman pulls back with a sharp gasp. MIKE GORDON’s rough hand is clamped hard onto her skirt.
Before the drunken scout can unleash another roar of laughter, a pale, manicured hand rests with feather-light precision against his forearm.
DOC HOLLIDAY glides into the space between them like a cold draft through an open window. He is close enough that Gordon catches the crisp scent of bay rum, peppermint, and carbolic acid beneath the doctor’s steady breath.
Doc leans in, his hooded gray eyes unblinking.
DOC
(silk-soft Georgia drawl)
Now, Mike. My dear mama, God rest her soul, taught me from the cradle that a lady’s parlor is governed by good breeding, not the clumsy instincts of a stray dog.
MIKE
(bristling)
Back off, Holliday. Just having a little frontier fun.
Doc’s thin mustache twitches with the ghost of a polite smile. His hand casually slips inside his tailored frock coat, his fingers settling effortlessly over the pearl grip of his shoulder-holstered revolver.
DOC
I do admire a man with sporting blood, Gordon, but you have mistaken my hospitality for charity. A woman’s dignity is not a handrail for a stumblebun, and my tolerance for poor manners is remarkably thin tonight. Take your heavy paw away, step back, and let us pretend you were raised among civilized people.
Doc leans another fraction of an inch closer, his voice dropping to an icy, intimate whisper.
DOC (CONT'D)
The clock has struck, the credit is gone, and your time under my roof is officially up. Walk through those batwing doors while you still have the legs to carry you, or I will gladly furnish you with an early grave right where you stand.
The saloon falls into a dead, suffocating hush. The upright piano stumbles to a halt on a sour chord.
Gordon stares into Holliday's unblinking eyes. He snarls, wheels around, and hurls the dregs of his tumbler straight out the batwing doors into Center Street.
The glass SHATTERS against the hitching post outside.
Gordon wheels back on Doc, chest heaving, his scarred face burning red beneath the lantern light.
MIKE
(bellowing, righteous and drunk)
Damn it! I'm not the villain here—you are, Doc! Fleecing us all night long with these loose women and your clever sleight of hand... it makes me think it’s high time us cowboys take a stand!
Doc Holliday doesn't flinch. He doesn't raise his chin.
A faint smirk curls beneath his mustache. He pulls an immaculate white handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbing away a stray drop of liquor from his lapel.
DOC
(slow, honeyed Georgia drawl)
A stand, Mr. Gordon? Why, bless your tender, theatrical little heart. You stagger into my establishment, wager three months of trail dust against basic arithmetic, lose every nickel because your brain is pickled in kerosene, and suddenly fancy yourself a champion of the working man.
Doc folds the handkerchief with surgical precision, tucking it away without breaking eye contact. He takes half a step closer. The patrons at the far tables slide backward into the corners.
DOC (CONT'D)
The ladies under my roof favor gentlemen who smell of bathwater rather than wet saddle blankets and sour mash. If you find my faro table too clever, the wide, empty prairie is waiting right outside that door. It demands no manners, no charm, and absolutely no intellect—a landscape tailored specifically to your gifts, Mike.
Mike's hand twitches down toward his holster.
MIKE
You patronizing Georgia son of a—
DOC
(cutting him dead; silk turns to ice)
Hush, now.
Doc’s hand rests deliberately over the pearl grip beneath his coat. His voice drops to a quiet, lethal purr.
DOC (CONT'D)
Do not exhaust what little grace the Lord has left you tonight. You have made your noise, Mike. Now be a good Christian and take your stand out in the dark before I am compelled to make a widower out of your horse.
Mike Gordon's jaw works silently. The bravado drains from his face, replaced by the hollow realization that he is staring into the eyes of a dead man who fears nothing. His shoulders sag.
MIKE
(muttering, humiliated)
I misspoke, Doc. Didn't mean no disrespect to the house.
Doc offers neither forgiveness nor malice—only that steady, chilling stillness.
Mike turns on his heel, spurs clinking as he pushes through the batwing doors into the pitch-black New Mexico night.
A collective, shuddering EXHALE sweeps through the room.
Then—
CRACK! CRACK!
Two deafening gunshots shatter the night.
Wood SPLINTERS violently. One heavy .45 slug gouges a jagged trench across the polished mahogany bar, showering glass and liquor into the air. The second bullet thuds into the floorboards inches from where Doc stood, kicking up a plume of gray pine dust.
PANDEMONIUM.
The parlor girls shriek, hiking satin skirts up the stairs. Gamblers dive beneath tables. Acrid white gunsmoke drifts lazily through the swinging doors.
Doc moves—fluid as oil—sliding flat against the heavy oak doorjamb. He clears the nickel-plated Colt, keeping the hammer cocked and the barrel angled down, gray eyes tracking the sulfur flash through the smoky transom.
He glances down at the terrified bartender curled behind the shattered bottles. A weary, charming smirk flickers on Doc's face.
DOC
(dry, measured)
Do forgive the interruption, gentlemen. It appears our wandering philosopher requires a permanent lesson in Southern punctuation. I shall return shortly.
EXT. CENTER STREET - CONTINUOUS
A cloud of sulfurous white smoke hangs heavy in the cool night air.
MIKE GORDON stands thirty feet out in the churned dirt street, heavy Colt smoking in his fist, chest heaving like a bellows. He glares at the entryway, expecting chaos.
Instead, the batwing doors creak gently open.
Doc Holliday steps smoothly onto the raised boardwalk.
His revolver is held low and shadowed along the seam of his trousers. He stops at the edge of the boards, head tilted, regarding Gordon like an annoying fly.
DOC
(slow, honeyed mock)
...You rung?
Gordon flinches, startled by Doc’s absolute stillness. Drunken rage surges back into his throat.
MIKE
(screaming, raising his iron)
You arrogant Georgia bastard!
BOOM.
Doc’s right arm levels with terrifying economy. A blinding flash cuts through the dark.
Gordon GASPS, the Colt tumbling from his grip. He collapses hard to his knees, clutching his shattered collarbone as crimson soaks through his vest, before sprawling face-first into the black New Mexico mud.
Doc stands motionless at the boardwalk's edge, wisps of white smoke trailing from his nickel barrel. He looks down into the street with clinical detachment.
DOC
(quiet, almost tender)
Good night, Mike.
Doc slides the revolver smoothly back into his coat. Without breaking stride, he steps back through the swinging doors into the warmth of the saloon.
INT. HOLLIDAY'S SALOON PARLOR - CONTINUOUS
Doc steps back through the doors. The room remains frozen—men crouched behind overturned tables, dance-hall girls peering through the balusters.
The bartender slowly pokes his head over the counter.
Doc pauses in the center of the floor, unbuttoning his coat and straightening his cuffs. He snaps his gold pocket watch shut with a quiet click.
DOC
(warm, honeyed charm)
Well now, ladies and gentlemen... the night air has settled, and the nuisance has been thoroughly retired to the custody of the dirt. An ill-mannered soul mistook volume for courage, and the Good Lord saw fit to correct his grammar. That is no reason for civilized folk to let good whiskey go to waste.
A ripple of nervous chuckles spreads across the room. Doc rights an overturned mahogany chair with the toe of his boot.
DOC (CONT'D)
Barkeep, fetch a broom for the splinters and pour a round of Old Overholt for every gentleman with chips left on the green felt. Put it on the doctor’s tab.
He taps the polished rosewood upright with a light, rhythmic rap of his knuckles.
DOC (CONT'D)
Professor... strike up that Stephen Foster waltz once more. Let us remind Center Street that while the wicked stumble in the dark, the righteous still know how to keep tempo.
The pianist scrambles onto the bench and strikes the keys. Warm, lilting notes wash through the room, cutting through the smell of black powder. Gold coins clatter back onto the baize.
Doc steps over to his faro table, picking up the silver card case as if nothing in the world had occurred.
DOC (CONT'D)
(easy, velvet drawl)
Now then... where were we, gentlemen? I believe the cut was yours.
[SCENE END]