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A Short Story : The Story OfThe Stranger?

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“How much?” He asked, his voice high and coarse. Earl’s skin shivered slightly at The Stranger’s voice, unnerved by its odd pitch.
“That’d be seventy-five pence,” Earl answered.
“And my petrol?” The Stranger kept his gaze fixed on Earl as the old man scanned the metre.
“You guys be getting hit by that storm up your way?” asked Earl, as he worked out the petrol cost. The Stranger bristled at the question, and his face tightened.
“And what way is that?” He replied, his voice now low and brittle. Earl looked up at The Stranger, unsure at the shift in tone.
“Well, I seen you’d drove down from the city, up North.”
“Why do you care about where I’m from?” The Stranger rattled the words out, clearly affronted.
“Well, I didn’t mean no offence,” Earl shrank back a little from The Stranger, confused as to what he’d done wrong, “just trying to pass a little time. If you can’t take that, then I don’t know what else I can do for you.” The Stranger said nothing, but continued to stare at Earl, a quiet fire in his eyes. Earl noticed a few crimson drops scattered over The Stranger’s neck and hands. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” Earl asked timidly, now deeply concerned. “I don’t know. Is there?” The store was deathly still as the two men stood frozen in place. “Is something the matter, sir?” Earl asked, his palms began to sweat. He thought back to the revolver, and placed one hand under the desk. “The matter with what?” came The Stranger’s deadpan reply. “With anything at

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