It was a Saturday night like any other at the Oriental. The saloon was packed, overflowing with drifters, gunmen, gamblers, and the dregs of society. Red played a ditty on the old piano, barely audible over the din of drunken patrons. The smells of cigar smoke, s*x, and body odor filled the place, giving it the same generic odor found in any saloon on a busy night.
Deputy Marshal Wyatt Earp was, as was usual on such a night, holding court over the faro table. His older brother, Virgil, the town marshal, was sitting to his right, downing his fair share of free whiskey and smoking Wyatt’s cigars. To Wyatt’s left sat notorious sporting man and cold-blooded killer Doc Holliday—Wyatt’s only friend—smoking a cigar, downing glass after glass of high-end scotch, and making lewd remarks to anyone
