You open your eyes. Your mind recollects the image of your dear, departed wife with her face covered in worms. And the Angel of Death hovers over the waters.
“This is what happens to assassins in the town of Little Whiskey!” The effulgent moonlight peering through the window dims as your pupils adjust to the surroundings. You receive another blow to the ribs by the foot of the notorious Little Bill, a brilliant carpenter with a dim-witted pistol. You drag yourself slowly out of the saloon and into the muck where you rest in peace beside your best non-African American friend, who volunteered to be made an example of.
“Good thing I hadn’t shot a kid or killed five men in a single hand,” you think to yourself, “else I would have to be cured of whiskey and all.”
A misleading boy with a bad shot but good intentions walks by. “He must have the fever, on account of the hogs back home.” You continue to ponder as you look up at the night sky. A whore steps over you and drops a bag of cash on your chest. “Split it three ways, just as that ill-tempered man with an acute deficiency did to that poor girl’s face with his sound-effects-producing hunting knife.” You stare in awe and then nod in agreement. After all, San Francisco has always been very welcoming to cowboys looking for lifestyle changes.
Stay classy, fellow bloggers.