“We’re all Yardrats now!” Corrected Chief Hogswind with a crooked jagged yellow smile and a sobering burp.

Pistol nodded and gripped the mug closest to him, raising it in front of Hogswinds’ dusted blue overalls; Just out of his reach. Chief Hogswind immediately nodded his head and with still lips reached towards the sweet-smelling mug hovering just in front of him. Miners stretching all around the train cart gripped their mugs tightly as a golden foaming waterfall descended effortlessly from the large barrels just above the bar counter into the fizzing mug sitting comfortably in Pistol’s hands. A collective drool and smacking of lips could be heard as the comforting snap of the tap closing gave way to a scent unlike any other.

As if passing over a sleeping baby, Pistol handed over the foaming golden drink with a carefree smile. If only for a moment, Chief Hogswind stared momentarily at his reflection in the golden still tiny pond just center of the parting foam before shoving the mug towards his lips like a man stumbling upon water in a desert.

“Orange Smooth Honey from the Gallup Mountains. A kick of Allspice from the Essessel Woods. And -.” Tried Explaining Pistol.

A large drop of mead slopped onto Pistol’s red cheeks while his smile drooped just as fast as Chief Hogswinds’ finished his mead.

“By the Spirits of the Evergreen Earth! Any older and I’d think you're rotting!” Marveled Chief Hogswind as tears seemingly began to fill his empty mug.

“And you Chief Hogswind? I’ve rotted better-smelling fish feed.” Snapped Pistol right back with a large grin.

Both men burst into a fit of laughter loud enough to fill the train car with an infectious smile from end to end and ear to ear.

“Oi, Pistol. This golden mead is the best damn drink that has ever had the grace of dripping my beard.” Whispered Hogswind.

“Mine too. I should know. Chief Hogs-” Chuckled Pistol.

“Don’t ya give me that Chief Hogswind shite and act like we’ve yet to see each other's innards! Ya want me to call you -” Tried Barking Hogswind.

“Aye, no need. I get it. Nick. We’re sticking to Pistol here.” Interrupted Pistol quickly with a sinking smirk.

“These men look thirsty? You going to continue to make em’ wait?” Continued Pistol.

“Pups! All of em’! Let em’ wait! I’ve waited 58 years! Half-past an hour on this train and they’re thirsty? This is what you and I used to call exercising self-control.” Laughed Nick loudly, turning toward the miners as if they were challenging his leadership.

Pistol took a moment to glance towards the many booths Nick and his men occupied. Aside from the miner’s nearly predatory anticipation of drink, Pistol noticed a small but significant change in the miner’s uniform since his time in the mines. He couldn't help but observe how the men wore dusted brown overalls this time around versus the usual black and blue over fifteen years ago. Most even appeared to have previously white shirts under; an amenity even Pistol took for granted. “Perhaps these were to signfigy their new status as miners”, theorized Pistol.

Despite the train being dimly lit, Pistol could still make out that most in the train cart wore some variation of a brown flat cap, dirtied brown boots, and a unique layer of thick soot and grime. Nick, however, wore the same old black and blue overalls Pistol was accustomed to despite being decorated with dirt from all regions of the deep earth. Despite Nick’s uniform remaining the same, his thin white hair poking from under his hat grew longer and far more scraggly than even Pistol’s own smoky gray beard while his belly peeked outside his overalls. Nevertheless, one whiff of Hogswind’s drunken breath and the familiarity of his times in the mines returned all the same.

“By the life of the Green Mother! Four years younger than you and yet you look as fit as a shepherd! Arm’s like cannons but a belly like a barrel. No one could’a told me a rubbish miner like you would’a ended up runnin’ a Midnight Train- Nay, one of the most mammoth trains I’ve ever had the pleasure piss inside of! Exclaimed Nick proudly.

“In my thirty years of being a conductor and in the few times you and your men have been assigned on my train, you’ve made short work of our tables, mugs, and even the toughest of the train’s workers.” Remarked Pistol with a scowl.

“Oi! It's only been 10 years! Why you of all people should be thanking me! God damn cactus thing left needles in my men’s drinks. We’ve just about had enough pleasures facing off rogue spirits! Don’t need drink to kill us faster than it already does.” Ranted Nick.

“Whisky Sunday picks its caretakers. I take no decision on who the train picks. Those who board this train were meant to regardless of how I feel. I’m simply a conductor in more ways than one.” Admitted Pistol whilst directed his gaze towards the many barrels of mead lined around the ceiling and walls of the train.

“I see. In what city does conducting also mean a damn good barkeep? I suppose the excellent drink is your personal touch then?” Inquired Nick, swirling his mug atop the bar.

“A Midnight Train is unique to its conductor. All of em’ different. All of em’ serving their own purposes. It ain’t common for me to get a say on who or what rides these tracks, even if they are rotting old friends with a shitty taste for manners. This train isn't the only thing stuck to the song of the tracks below.” Explained Pistol.

“Oi well, the sun don’t shine too bright down at the Conkle either. You shoulda’ seen how happy my boys and I were when we saw your fancy train pull up at the Conkle station. Last time we had a magic train pull in at the Conkle was when a big-wig from pish-posh city was checking the quality of our trade. Imagine that.” Reminisced Nick.

“He’s probably from Borodine. Last I heard, they had a shortage of spirit coal only seven years ago. So bad in fact… they rely more on regular steam-powered pistons to this day. Borodine chose pride over trade.” Recalled Pistol.

“So did you apparently. Here I thought your magic train’s reputation had run you ignorant with luxury and finesse. The alleged enemy of the everyday working man.” Exclaimed Nick loudly, grabbing his suspenders proudly.

“The spirit world has countless strong connections to the hearts and desires of the living...like a tree would to dirt. These Midnight Trains serve as the roots representing such a… profound bridge.” Explained Pistol.

“That make us the dirt?” Asked Nick.

“If we’re lucky. Otherwise, we get to be miners.”Chuckled Pistol lightly.

“It seems we’ve a lot to catch up on… however, now appears not to be the time!” Admitted Nick loudly, taking command of the room.

“Magic train or not, I’ve yet to have a better drink than your mead! And to be quite honest with you, your helpers better get to serving the rest of the cast fast because they're beginning to look at me like how a pack of wolves would a fattened New Dwardian sheep!” Roared Nick to the cheers of his men.

“If this is your subtle way of asking me to serve the rest. Not to worry. As we’ve been speaking my helper Sarah has been fast at work setting up mugs, pitchers, and cups to all corners of the train car. In a moment, she’ll be barreling down here too. So at the very least you’ll want to stay out of her way.” Warned Pistol.

“You hear that, boys! Do not get in the lady’s way! We're not savages up here! Let her do her damn job so we can get back to ours!” Commanded Nick as he bowed his head back into the conversation.

“Ah yes, the freckled young lady with the red hair? She greeted us upon our arrival. We’ll formally meet in a moment I presume.” Laughed Nick.

“You’ll likely be trampled before saying any kind hello.” Laughed Pistol.

“She's very learned Pistol. Astute like her ol’ boss.” Chuckled Nick.

“And your miners. Things appear… strict under your rule.” Observed Pistol.

“Things are far different down in the mines. More dangerous than ever before Pistol. A military is what you need to keep the City Of New Dwarden running abright nowadays. These boys act when I tell em’ too. The rogue spirits - Golem’s, the boy’s call em now’- they’re not what we've had the gall to deal with; far bigger now, some deformed and grotesque, and they’re coming closer to the surface and killing more and more of us as time goes by.” Confessed Nick, propping himself straight on the stool.

Pistol and Nick looked past each other with deep concern. It was as though both men put forth a million horror stories from within the mines and discussed them in a matter of seconds.

“I see. Thought things would’ve improved with you at the helm of these recruits.” Confessed Pistol.

“No luck I’m afraid. Not shitty city mandated care packages will beat a ride home to their families. That is… until we’re all back for mid-season and the danger starts all over again.” Agreed Nick.

“Enough of the Conkle! We’ve spent far too long there!” Interjected Pistol.

“Well, more myself than you!” Laughed Nick alongside Pistol.

“Sarah is nearly done serving the dishware and you and your men are here to celebrate. So let’s give em’ a good memory for once.” Acknowledged Pistol in a snap of certainty.

Nick watched still as Pistol reached for his mug - his hand so large the mug itself was the handle- and observed Pistol pour a fragrant dark brown drink from the seemingly decorative giant barrel propped up behind him.

“And this? Better than the golden mead?” Asked Nick.

“Let the Yardrats decide this time.” Proposed Pistol confidently, raising a glass into the air.

“Would the conductor of this magnificent train do us the honor of initiating this pocketed night of feast and festival?” Asked Nick excitedly.

“If I may.” Agreed Pistol reluctantly with a somewhat distant stare.

At the snap of Pistol’s fingers, the train’s numerous dimmed lanterns, flickering lamps, and lengthy candles, were all snuffed out in unison. Like a burst of cold wind, only the moonlight and the light of a single candle remained. Patrons listened intently as Pistol’s heavy steps creaked deeper into the red-carpeted aisle and further from the bar. All eyes remained fixated on the ghostly candle making its way towards the center of the large train cart as the darkness of the night blanketed the crowds in blinking moonlit silhouettes.

“Gentlemen, I’ve heard your plights and the misfortunes of your last days in the Conkle mines! My ears work just as well as they did when I was down there with you. I’ve had the fortune today to return amongst you! And as such, I understand most of your quarrels. As a result, tonight your drinks -not my mugs or any of my wares- are on me! However, the next person to break any damn thing on this train or even piss off my helping hands will have their checks doubled and then I trust your old boss Chief Hogswind will deal with the rest. These are my rules! Welcome to my train! Tonight is your night on the Whiskey Sunday!” Spoke Pistol with a warm yet explosive embrace.

The Whiskey Sunday erupted awake at yet another snap of Pistol’s fingers. Lamps, candles, and even the tiny kitchen attached to the bar lit aflame once more. Nighttime appeared to have vanished from the inside of the train while sounds of the metallic tracks below gave way to Nick’s drunken burps; somehow immediately signaling the arrival of a bursting cacophony of banging mugs, stacking banter, and even various songs.