‘You forgot to take off your hat.’
‘I know what I’m doing. You think I want to get my make-up grimy? Besides that, there’s bleeding great maggots jacking around.’
‘Marshall – they’re props. Get on with it.’
The lone stranger grimaced, took off his shades and...
‘What shades? Like glasses... or blinds?’
‘Not in 1849.’
The lone stranger wiped a muddy hand across his brow, gave an “I told you so” glare, turned round, and faced the cantina entrance. Fifteen bad-ass bandits were standing on the wooden steps and grinning through toothless gaps. All had guns pointed at him. Some were picking their noses.
‘That’s the welcoming committee. They hate your guts. The guns are loaded. And they’re trigger happy.’
‘Beam me up, Scotty.’
The lone stranger looked up at the darkening sky. Fifteen pairs of eyes – no, take that back – five pairs of eyes and ten single ones followed his gaze.
‘Looks like rain,’ one of the bandits murmured. The murmur became infectious and fifteen pairs of legs - oh, okay – all the physically un-handicapped bandits - that’s everyone, okay - retreated back inside.
The lone stranger un-holstered a Rocket Propelled Grenade, attached a multi-spiked explosive warhead, and lined it up on the cantina door.
‘Wait! It’s not...’
The lone stranger smirked.
Whooped at the screams, burning flesh, and total destruction.
‘Yippee. I’m... A lone stranger again.’