Chapter Text
Amanda Stern
Market Road 5523
April 15th
Dearest mother,
Thank you for the well wishes, as well as the rhubarb pie that you sent with your last letter. Niles and I both have missed your baking.
I am settling in just fine. Niles is awfully patient with me, as you can imagine, despite the number of glasses I have managed to smash into the floor behind the bar. We get along like two peas in a pod.
The saloon isn’t quite the same scene as I’m used to, but I mostly find it fascinating. No day is like the other out in the big city.
Copper Valley is a nice town. Bit crowded compared to our farm, but then again, what isn't? So far I have made friends with the old grocer’s daughter and her family, and the pastor is quite a nice fellow. There’s a ranch in the outskirts of town, which I plan to visit sometime soon, when Niles will allow it.
I know that you and father are scared for us, in regards to the criminal activities in Copper Valley. With this letter, I hope to ease your worries. The town sure is lively, and perhaps some of the youths might have sticky fingers, but things are good. You can’t have a town without a little rough housing after all, but things aren’t as bad as they might seem. Besides, we are taking good care of ourselves. Niles has a licence for his shotgun, and the local law enforcement is reliable. The sheriff knows everyone in town, and he frequents the saloon often to make sure that no drunkards are bothering us-
Connor stops his pen mid air. There’s a big inky spot where he stopped writing. He's not sure how much more he can lie to his mother about the situation in to wn.
Sure, he can’t feel too guilty about calming her nerves by exaggerating the working relationship between himself and his brother. Pretending like he’s enjoying himself, stuck in this crowded town, isn’t all that hard on his conscience either. After all, he was the one who begged his parents to let him go.
However.
Pretending like the sheriff and his marshals are doing a good job at protecting the town… It's another thing entirely.
He isn't lying altogether. The sheriff, Mr Anderson, does frequent the saloon, except he only comes around to drink. His benders are high in frequency, so high that apparently no one in the Longhorn even thinks it a strange occurrence. And judging by the crime rate since Connor arrived, just a few weeks earlier, the sheriff’s department isn’t exactly pulling its weight the way it ought to.
But there’s no reason to worry his mother more than is necessary, so Connor simply scrunches the paper together and throws it in the hearth. He’ll find something else to write about, something nice that his parents won’t lose sleep about.
Finishing a new letter to his mother, Connor gets up from the desk in his tiny bedroom and stretches his legs. The hour is still fairly early - he could probably find some time to go for a swim by the river, and still make it back in time to have his breakfast. Apple will be happy about a morning gallop. She usually is.
He decides against it. The sun is poking through the rooftops outside his window, and it’s going to be a hot day, he can already tell. Too bad there’s no wind blowing through the doors of the Longhorn on those hot days, since the buildings are blocking the breezes from the plains.
He puts on his usual attire, a carefully pressed and crisp white shirt, along with a tight vest, and the apron, without which he would have giant splotches of whiskey all over his dress pants.Then he takes his time walking downstairs through the saloon’s main floor.
Niles is already there, putting down the chairs from where they have been stacked on top of the tables last night.
“Good morning,” he says with a pleasant smile. Always so chipper in the morning. Connor smiles back, giving his shoulder a squeeze as he heads towards the entrance, unlocking the doors.
The air is already warm outside, and due to the buildings surrounding them, the heat collects fast on the gravelly road.
Connor takes a deep breath, inhaling the smell of dirt and soot and alcohol. Back home, it smells like pine needles and leather.
An elderly couple walks past him, the man using his bowler hat to fan his face. Connor waves at them politely, and they stare back at him, as if he’s sprouted a third arm.
While Connor has been dreaming of leaving the farm long before he made it his mission to track down the rustlers, he finds himself more often than not missing home.
Strange, how he can feel more alone in this crowded place, than at a family home where there are more cows and chickens than there are people.
Before he goes back inside, he checks the billboard by the entrance. Every other day, he puts up descriptions of the men he’s looking for, as detailed as he can muster - which sadly isn’t very detailed, since all Connor ever saw were their backs as they rode off with the cattle - in the hopes that someone might recognize them.
No one seems to have taken down his poster from last night. One has, however, scratched out the words, “HAVE YOU SEEN THESE MEN?” and in its stead, drawn an unrealistically proportional penis over it.
It’s quite distasteful, and Connor would be more upset, had this been the first time that this has happened. Instead, he sighs and rips it down.
If only the deputy would get back to him, he would put up a real wanted poster.
But that would require too much effort from the sheriff’s department. Since he moved to Copper Valley, Connor has seen the deputy and his subordinates walk the streets to collect taxes and chat up women in stores. A few times, they have taken down someone trying to steal a bottle from the liquor store, but the criminal always walks free.
The sheriff doesn’t do much to better his employees either. He does his every day routines, the ones that are mandatory, but there’s no active crime prevention in there - no strict gun control, no hangings, no nothing. The deputy marshal carries out his fair share of punishments, but that guy is also a sadistic bastard who prefers to arrest those that have wronged him rather than the actual bad guys - he’s about as bad as the criminals in town, in Connor's opinion.
Meanwhile, the patrons of the Longhorn keep coming to Connor with tales of all kinds of stolen goods, of men threatening them with guns and knives. No one seems to feel safe with the law enforcement in Copper Valley.
Long story short, Connor’s stay in town has so far not lived up to his childish fantasy of riding straight into town and seeking revenge.
*
His family ranch hadn’t been affected by any criminal activities before. Situated a few hours from the nearest settlement, and two days’ travel from Copper Valley, they have only ever been visited by family friends and his father’s business partners. Sure, there are always seasonal workers during summer and winter months, and they don’t leave the ranch during these seasons, either, but that's about it.
Strangers have never really been a part of Connor’s life, not in the way he's subjected to them in this town.
That is, up until almost two months ago, when a band of rustlers broke into one of their pastures and stole an entire cut of Connor's carefully picked out cows. The closest farmhouse was set on fire while the bastards were at it.
It’s rare that his parents are out on the fields, but Connor was the night rider that night, and he and his group noticed the fire too late. They were short on men that week, due to an outbreak of the flu.
The new guy, a jittery, nervous kid that clearly couldn’t handle the high tempo of the work, had fallen ill. Shaky Eddie, as Connor’s second in command, Markus, had named him, left the ranch along with some of his friends to catch a doctor in Copper Valley. It made looking after the cut, as well as the rest of their herd, difficult. Maybe Connor should have stayed, helped the others herd the cut all the way to the enclosure, but he had to make a call, and Eddie looked like he had one foot in the grave.
While Connor arranged for a carriage to pick up Eddie and his comrades, the rustlers were already on the premises.
By the time that Connor and Markus found the source of the fire, the thieves were riding off with the cattle. The only thing Connor caught sight of were the backs of the men riding out of sight into the pitch black of the night, his cows way ahead. It was just a split second.
He wanted to go after them but even through his blinding rage, he knew that he would be no match against five men.
The worst part was finding their finest bulls dead on the ground, shot in their stomachs.
The entire ranch was in shock the next morning, and nothing would make Connor happier than to ride after the crooks and see them hanged.
Connor’s parents have well established connections. By knowing the right people, his father managed to have a former colleague come over and help him repair the damage on the barns that had caught on fire.
What hadn’t been salvageable was the loss in numbers of their cattle - A considerably hard blow to the ranch, even though Connor’s parents refused to see the truth. It’s a big ranch, but that doesn't change the fact that the family was affected heavily by the loss. The cut was meant to be sold in the coming week, and the winnings would pay for quite a substantial renovation of their property.
His father was… Not happy. Even as he was aware of the fact that Connor couldn’t possibly have prepared for this heist, it soon became clear that there was a part of him that blamed his son for this. There was no need to say the words out loud - Connor had been riding alongside his father since he could sit up straight. His father had taught him everything. And yet, Connor had failed.
With a need to seek vengeance, an urge to set things right after his misstep, Connor spent weeks convincing his mother to let him move into the big city, to his brother. She eventually caved in, if only to not have to listen to his nagging any longer. She would need to hire a new night rider, along with interim lead riders while she was at it. It was quite a tall order made by Connor, but he was adamant to go. If she understood the real intention behind his request, she didn’t mention it. Connor finds it difficult to believe that his mother, who is ever the observant lady, was fooled by his sudden need to move to the big city.
Still, she reluctantly let him go to “pursue his dreams”, as he’d called it. Perhaps she only thought it right and just, to let Connor fix the mess that he'd got his family into.
And so, that’s what brought Connor here, to this polished saloon in the city of Copper Valley - the only regularly cleaned establishment in this entire, filthy city.
He works for Niles everyday. Sometimes he takes the night shifts, and every day he listens to what the locals are saying as they come in for drinks and food. He polishes the dirty glasses, brings out the beers and the food to their customers. He jokes with the regulars and, on slower nights, listens to the town’s musician as he plays the clunky piano.
Connor does enjoy the crowded places, the new faces. Most of the time. What he doesn't enjoy is the gossip, the judgemental stares at anyone who doesn't follow the societal rules to a tee. While he does his best to stay the polite and nice cowboy that he was brought up to be, most people here are rude and crass.
Miss Kara Williams is a kind, hard working woman who Connor immediately took a liking to when he moved here - but the fact that her daughter, Alice, is born out of wedlock makes her a mark for whispers. The stares have decreased since her new husband, Luther, showed up, but the gossip has only gained in volume now.
The church has a kind pastor, sure, but then there are the church-goers: stale, prejudiced, narrow minded.
Connor used to think that the people at his family ranch were boring and prejudiced, but surprisingly this town takes the cake. If it wasn’t for the fact that he is in desperate need of said gossip, which keeps him informed of what is happening around town, he would be more inclined to tell the people to shut their damn pie holes.
The town seems to be in constant trouble. Niles is unperturbed, seeing it as just a normal Tuesday when a woman comes into the saloon to hide because a couple of men tried robbing her of the linens that she had washed in the river.
And that’s far from the worst of all the things that Connor has been privy to since stepping onto the streets of Copper Valley. On his first day at the Longhorn, there were two bandits striding through town, shooting at windows. The next day, a guy tried to steal one of the horses tied to the posts outside of the saloon.
The marshals usually show up too late, and by that time they don’t make any effort to apprehend the bastards.
Then there’s the sheriff.
Connor came here with the intention to find the cattle thieves, excited on that first day working at the Longhorn, knowing that the sheriff, of all people, would be there. Naive as he was, Connor was eager to put his best foot forward in an attempt to interest the sheriff in the thief hunt.
No such luck.
Nowadays of course, Connor knows better than to expect anything from Sheriff Anderson.
It's a depressing sight, watching the quite impressive silhouette of him come through the batwing doors, sitting down at the same table each morning, ordering the same thing - scotch - and downing the first glass in one swipe.
He barely talks to any of them. He doesn't even have to verbally order the scotch, it just appears on the table in front of him when he’s there.
Connor has tried to make some light conversation with him, asking if he slept well last night while cleaning the table and such.
The sheriff doesn’t look up, and he answers in a few words at a time. Within those short sentences however, Connor has registered a rumbling bass of a voice, smooth and warm timbre. It’s a shame that such a nice voice is wasted on such an unpleasant person.
Niles is no help. Never having been one to offer up any gossip - because he seldom engages in small talk of any kind - he only shrugs when Connor asks him what the deal with the sheriff is.
On this day, Connor manages a few more words out of Niles, but they only make him more frustrated. They’re talking across the bar, Connor watching Anderson out of the corner of his eye.
“I don’t know. He’s always been like this, as long as I’ve been here,” Niles says indifferently, and Connor feels like shaking him, mostly because he can tell that his brother is lying.
“Well, aren’t you at least a little curious?” he tries, frustrated beyond comprehension. “I mean, he’s supposed to protect this town, and yet I see him in here every damn day.”
“I’m not about to intrude on someone’s personal life, little brother.”
“But he was elected sheriff, so he must have had some positive influence around here, right?”
They have had this discussion many times over the weeks that Connor has spent in Copper Valley, and judging by the glare that Niles shoots him, he’s getting tired of it.
As he watches his brothers go downstairs to fetch more wine from the cellar he cleans the counter, his mind working so hard that he barely notices when someone sits down in front of him at the bar.
"You're ogling the sheriff again," North mutters under her breath, tipping her wide-brimmed hat towards him, bringing him back to the present. Embarrassed by this, Connor blushes, immediately tearing his gaze from where he's been staring at Sheriff Anderson. "Better be careful, Stern. These people don't take kindly to our sort."
She’s got it all wrong, and Connor wants to tell her this much, but it may not be a safe discussion to have inside.
North hasn't defined what 'our kind' means, but Connor knows. It was obvious in the way they caught each other's eye in the grocery store on his first day. Obvious in how the both of them squirm in the pews of the chapel on sundays. Obvious in how neither of them have ever been in search of a spouse. It’s fairly easy to spot one of your own in a sea of strangers.
Back home on the ranch, it didn’t really matter whether you preferred men or not - he and his fellows often found themselves bored on slow days, or frisky after a night of drinking and dancing. It didn’t mean much out in the wild, and though neither him nor the other cowboys spoke of it, it was just the way things were. That is not, however, how things work in the big city.
Connor has always known that he had a romantic preference for men, but he never before assumed that this disposition could be visible in the way he dressed and acted. Apparently it is, at least enough so that North noticed it right away. She herself isn’t exactly subtle about it - North always wears trousers, and she always rides astride her mount, never like a lady. Connor hasn't seen her in anything but trousers and practical boots, a nice hat, akin to the ones that Connor's father used to wear back at the ranch. Men's clothes, in short.
The fact that she knows makes it easier to relax around her, and Connor finds that he greatly appreciates her friendship. He thinks of Markus back home. He would have liked North.
"I know," Connor mumbles - and yet he goes back to staring just a minute later. If only he could find a way for the man to open up, to come out of his shell. Connor refuses to believe that a man like that - distinguished, handsome and with such kind eyes - could be this indifferent to the health of his town.
“He’s been like this for years,” North whispers, leaning over the bar with a conspiratorial gleam in her eyes. “My mother told me that he used to be this boss detective, once. The real deal. Had impeccable aim, too. She has saved this newspaper from ten years ago,” she continues, obviously enjoying the way Connor’s eyes widen, “and there’s an article about him. He once stopped this major bank robbery here in town. Managed to injure every single robber, with no casualties. Saved two young women’s lives and virtues to boot.”
“That’s…” Connor frowns, glancing back over to Sheriff Anderson’s slouched form, “... hard to believe.”
“Isn’t it?” North sighs, looking behind her. “Well, one can't deny that he's a bit of a coffee boiler nowadays. Doesn't do much but go on benders and stagger home at an ungodly hour. But we don’t really need that much protection anyway, do we?”
Connor snorts. It’s a joke - North is just as aware of the way this town is crumbling in on itself.
“Aren’t you two supposed to be working?”
Niles’ aloof voice comes up behind Connor, a warm hand settling on his shoulder. Connor is proud for not jumping straight in the air in surprise, and instead turns to fire off an arched eyebrow.
“Don’t look at me,” he says drily, “I’m behind the bar.”
“And I’m just leaving,” North chuckles, pressing her palms against the edge of the counter until she’s leaning back, standing up from the barstool.
"Connor," Niles says in a low voice, "don't push it. I don’t want you to stir up trouble around here."
“You don’t have to worry,” Connor assures him, and Niles scowls at his feigned innocence. When his brother leaves, Connor goes back to watching Anderson.
He watches the back of the colorful shirt he’s wearing, the old but polished boots on his feet. He looks out the window and watches the sheriff’s red and white pinto outside, calmly munching on the grass poking out under the foundation.
The longer Connor stays in Copper Valley, the slimmer the chances of finding the thieves are getting. He pesters Niles, and North, and just about everyone else who comes through the door, about what kind of illegal activities are going on in Copper Valley.
Perhaps he has been careless, throwing himself into his own investigation like this. If the thieves were here, surely he must have scared them off by now.
*
Dear Connor,
I hope this message finds you well. Things around here are fine, if perhaps a little tense. Your father has let go of most of the staff by now. Until you return, I have been promoted to cow boss - me!
Don't be too hard on yourself after everything that happened. We were all there that night, and we should have seen what was happening. Not just you. Your father will understand that, soon enough. If anything I blame Shaky Eddie - we wouldn't have dropped our guard if he hadn't been so airheaded as to drink out of the same basin as the darn horses! He was a mean son of a gun too, wasn’t he? Please tell me if you find him in town - and do give him a kick from me.
I hope to be able to visit you, once the move is over. We shall find time to ride again, side by side.
Give Niles my best.
Yours sincerely,
Markus Manfred
*
On the day where things finally start to happen, Connor stands in the crowded saloon and wishes that he was back on his beautiful mustang mare back home, assisting the other cowboys in bringing the cattle into the next pen.
Another customer complains that he put too little brandy into her glass, and in the back of his mind, Connor sees the barn out the back of the farmhouse, where he and his first crush used to hide and make out.
The sheriff slouches in his seat, ignoring the gamblers who always cheat in poker, and Connor longs to have some of his mother’s rhubarb pie again.
On the day where everything changes, there's a new band of patrons coming inside, people that Connor doesn't recognize at all - which is strange in and of itself. Connor thought he'd met everyone in town already.
Turns out, he was wrong.
These people are loud, and as soon as their eyes fall on the bar, and by extension Connor, their eyes narrow, faces turning into mean smiles.
Oh great.
He knows these kinds of men. Loud, boisterous, and always looking for a fight. It's going to be a long day - that, he knows. All he can do is make something useful out of these customers. If they’re outlaws, or gunslingers, or anything, they might know things. Things that Connor needs.
"Good afternoon," he says as one of the newcomers settles on the barstool. "What will it be?"
The man orders a pint and then joins his companions.
Connor watches as he cleans the counter, swiping off the excess of beer on his fingers against his black apron. The band of men are deep in conversation, each of them leaning over the table. Another couple of guys show up to talk, and Connor's pretty sure they're exchanging money between them.
It's difficult to watch them without making it look like he's watching, but he does his best.
The shortest of the guys comes over to pay the bill for the party, and when he does, Connor leans over conspiratorially.
"Hey, I've got some stuff for a client," he whispers, looking over his shoulder as if he's nervous about anyone overhearing. "I need to get a hold of some good cattle around here. Do you know anyone?"
The man eyes Connor up and down, the lapels of his leather jacket just about concealing half his face. He has a nasty scar across his cheek, which probably explains the way he's covering his appearance. "Damn if I know," he mutters. Connor taps his fingers against the counter. Somehow he feels like this person would know something, anything, that will help him along. "What's it to you?" the man says, eyes narrowed.
"I hear you're a man who knows when one needs to get stuff… other ways." It's a long shot, but Connor has found that there's a lot to be gained from letting them know that their reputation precedes them. "Away from the eye of the law, that is."
The man looks positively insulted by Connor's request.
"You're a fucking marshal or something?"
"No!" Connor says, hands held up as he does. "No, I just don't want to get the uh. Pigs involved." He says this with a pointed nod to the sheriff. The man follows Connor’s gaze, frowning. When he looks back at Connor, he gives him a smile that misses one front tooth.
Connor doesn't like the look on the man's face now. By the look, and smell, of him, he's already piss drunk.
"You're pretty polished for a bartender, aren't you?"
Connor bristles at that. Sure, he swims in the river most mornings, and he brushes his teeth and cleans his armpits, and yes, he has two sets of work clothes so that he'll be able to clean them between work--
The man clicks his tongue. "I didn't know sissies like you would go 'round the law like this. Sure you're not brown nosing for your most loyal customer?"
It's the man's turn to nod back at the sheriff.
The words sting, and it’s not the first time that someone has made that kind of comment about Connor. But he collects himself - this is a test, he is sure of it. If the man doesn't believe him, he'll have to convince him.
"You could just say no, if you don't have any connections at all,” he whispers, trying for indifference as he leans his elbows against the counter, ”I guess you're nothing but a drunk with the looks of a mindless brute."
Clenching his fists, Connor takes a deep breath, awaiting the follow up. It's not worth it, starting a fight in the saloon. Chances are, they’re going to lose customers for it.
"I got plenty of connections, boy," the man hisses, hands flat against the counter. "Not the kind that you're after. I don't make deals with the sheriff's toy."
Okay, so clearly Connor should have softened the man with more alcohol before he tried to prod him. In hindsight, he probably shouldn't have asked.
The man digs around in his jacket and slaps a rolled up piece of paper onto the bar. Connor's hairs stand on end now, as he recognizes his own writing style on the paper.
"I think you need to sober up, sir," he says, one last attempt at politeness as he backtracks.
"You're the one who keeps putting up your own ‘Wanted’ posters everywhere." There’s a tension in the air now, like the heavens are gathering up a storm right in this room. “I’ve seen you, skulking around, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”
Connor needs to keep his cool.
"I care a great deal for the public's safety."
"You care too much, punk." The man spits on the floor. It’s apparently the norm in this town, to spit on any available surface, but Connor has not been acclimatized to it yet. He scrunches his nose in distaste as the man continues. “Me and my friends, you see... We don’t appreciate nosy kids around our businesses.”
The saloon is quite full right now. Connor doubts that the man would try anything, despite the hostile air about him, so he presses on.
“Only a guilty man would be worried about the law being upheld.” He inhales fast, blurting out, “Maybe I should be looking into your activities after all.”
To his surprise, the man opens his coat to reveal a knife glinting in the light of the saloon. He strokes the handle with his fingers, ready to reach for it.
“You better stop digging into this, or I’ll put an end to you.”
A threat. He thinks that Connor will be afraid.
He's way wrong about that. This man could be another step in the right direction to find the scum who robbed Connor’s family.
"Threaten me again and I'll throw you out myself," Connor says, voice low.
"Why don't you try me, Sissy?"
"With pleasure."
*
Hank doesn't know what day of the week it is. He's barely aware of the time of day. Not that he cares. Everyday is the same, isn’t it?
The thing is, nothing changes in this shit hole. Not for anyone.
Not for Hank.
Then one day, something does change.
And maybe Hank becomes aware of it, the way one subconsciously senses the approach of a thunderstorm before it hits, because despite the fact that nothing has changed between last night and today….
Everything has changed. He just doesn't know yet what that is.
Just like most days, he's hanging out at the Longhorn, drowning the remnants of last night's regrets in an entire bottle of Black Lamb, when a loud man starts to get frisky with the boy behind the bar. It’s not a rarity, seeing men fight in these parts, and usually Hank will just let them settle things themselves, as long as no one draws a gun or seriously tries to hurt the other.
But the kid behind the counter looks so young and so clueless…
Without giving it much thought, Hank decides that he should intervene before the kid hurts himself.
The only thing on his mind as he turns to stand up, legs unsteady, is that the poor kid must be shaking in his pristinely polished boots. He's the new guy, and maybe he doesn't know that Jones often starts fights, and never finishes them without his band of outlaws.
Jones is wobbling on the spot, and God damn it, now he's drawn his knife again. While Hank rarely cares to step in, he has to make an effort for the new kid. He doesn’t know why he cares this time - it has been years since he made an active choice like this.
"You little punk," Jones spits, lunging for the bartender, and Hank quickly sobers up, feeling the blood coursing quicker through his veins. It causes his vision to blur as he staggers up to the bar counter.
Being too focused on settling down Jones' anger, Hank doesn’t even think to notice the collected anger in the bartender's eyes.
"All right, why don't you go home, sober up-" he starts, cutting in between the two of them, thumbs hooking in the loops of his pants. Then he shuts the fuck up.
As if it all is happening in slow motion, Hank watches the scrawny bartender jump over the bar and deck Jones in the stomach.
There’s a mighty sound coming from the point of contact, followed by Jones’s pained grunt. Then, the other patrons in the saloon start to shout as the bartender stands over Jones, both feet on either side of his torso.
"What the hell-" Jones croaks, while the bartender lifts him up by the lapels of his coat, and Hank finds himself shocked by the sheer strength of this young man.
"Unless you'd like to drink your ale out of a tube for the rest of your life,” the bartender hisses, “I suggest you start talking right now.”
This may be the bartender’s home, but this situation is getting out of hand. The patrons in the Longhorn look on as the men pound and kick at each other, knocking over an empty table in the process.
The bartender blocks Jones’ fists, using the momentum to place a firm foot right in his midsection. When Jones pulls back to center a nice fist against his jaw, the bartender stalks over to him, completely unafraid.
All right. Enough is enough.
This is where Hank comes in, positioning himself between them to break up what is quickly escalating into an unnecessarily violent fight.
It just so happens that the bartender doesn't have the time to reel in his fists.
He hits Hank square in the jaw and fuck, the kid has a nice swing. Hank would say as much if his head wasn't spinning off his neck. His vision whites as he stumbles back and loses his balance.
"Fuck!" he wheezes, touching the part of his face that is burning, pretty much feeling his cheek pulsating underneath his skin. There’s a collective intake of breath as the whole saloon shuts up to watch as their washed-up, drunk, good-for-nothing sheriff falls to the floor with a heavy thud.