Title: Not a fair fight.
You don’t say much.
I am the main character in a really bad Western.
Well, the bad guys name is Bart, and he lives in Dry Gulch, His sister: Betty Lou Mary Jo McCalister lives in Sweetwater, she loves me, and he wants me dead.
Well, that is bad. What are you going to do.
What I was born to do , Mister.
Yep. I am going to shoot anything that moves, fight anything that stands, and screw anything that lays down.”
The man got right up off the lounge chair, where he had been laying.
Your Right. This is a really bad Western.
Are you back to that one word nonsense?
The Story has started:
… as he rode into Dry Gulch, his mouth was as dry as the desert he just came from. He was parched. He sat straight and tall in the saddle, because if he leaned to one side or another, those huge blisters he got from his chaps rubbing his thighs raw, would bleed again. He would cry, but he was parched, no water left to leak from his eyes. And…he was the part of the Old West that cut men wide and deep, sometimes with a knife, although a bullet often made a nice furrow too. But not Shame, he would never cry. No sirree, Shame was of the old West where they did cut a man wide and deep, like a canyon.
He was every inch of six foot five. He should know , he measured it himself. He was broad in the shoulder, so broad that his shoulders cast a shadow so wide across that his horse could ride under, and did. He had the arms of a blacksmith. They were tucked neatly in his saddle bag. Living, err…dead proof that he had caught and killed; Black Barney, the renegade blacksmith, who not only stole horses, but doggone if he didn’t go and fix them up a good set of shoes too.
Oh, so where were we?
Oh, yes, the wind had died down, everyone had come out to enjoy the night wind, when Shame road in to town. That boy must be every inch of six foot five, thought one old townie. How can you tell? asked another. Well, look at his pants and shirt, must be a hashmark about every inch or so, I count sixty five of them up to his collar, figure his head ought to be about 11 inches or so, that makes him right at six foot five or maybe a bit better.
Wow, you are good at math.
Have to be. I am the undertaker. Measure twice, bury once. Like back when he was a young undertaker over there in that town called: “Headstone.” Where Shame and the Burp bothers had taken out the entire Clarence gang, in that shootout at the everything’s really not quite alright corral. There was a powerful lot of shooting, and a powerful lot of dying, that day. He even got a bonus for making six of the coffins out of ash instead of pine. Of course, if you use Ash, you have to do the design backwards, if you don’t do it ashbackwards, well, you are as good as dead.
A shiver went through the townie, like he had stepped on a ghost. The undertaker had more than a professional smile on his face, in fact, his smile was one of anticipation. If all six foot five of Shame was in town, well, business is looking up.
The undertaker knew a killing machine when he saw one. Even if there hadn’t been a pair of arms sticking out of the saddlebags, he would have pegged Shame for what he was. The main character in a really bad western, which could only be because the smell of powder , the hot stink of metal on leather, and the cries of the wounded and dying as their life’s blood pours into the desert sand- leaving no trace, except a small smear, and in the rainy season a puddle with a rainbow in it, followed Shame like a shadow in the night.
People wonder where the quotation marks, commas, and punctuation is …well, to tell the truth, this is a REALLY BAD WESTERN, and it doesn’t need Grammar, or his wife to tell him he is talking. His brother was in a comma once, and didn’t wake up for weeks, so, just be thrilled there is the occasional period. Like the Old West, to make it clear for the Reader. For Shame. LOL
to be continued….By Kevin Hughes