Two days ago when I was in the town of Goldbanks (population one hundred, including the spittoons) I visited the local watering hole hoping for a shot of my favourite Jack when the drunken stranger sitting on a barstool and cradling his beer like it was a newborn decided he’d try muscle in on the new guy, show him who’s top dog in this town, if you catch my drift. The barkeep was a burly man, stronger no doubt than the buffalo that roamed the area and twice as hairy, but even he seemed too timid to chuck the troublemaker out, so I knew I was in a bit of a difficult situation.
The drunk identified himself as Tex (they usually do, it’s a popular name out here in the desert) and said he’d never seen me before. Course he hadn’t, I told him, I just got here. He then told me he didn’t like my attitude, and that he was in the right mind to teach me a lesson. I warned him, of course I warned him. I told him he was disturbing the wrong passenger, but he’d have none of it. Outside, he told me, we’d settle this outside because he didn’t want to ruin his favourite bar and I agreed, I didn’t want to give a bad first impression after all. Besides, the barkeep seemed to be a good man, I’d hate to ruin his day.
So outside the stranger went, expecting that I’d be following him and we’d fight it to the death like gentlemen of old. Imagine his surprise when he turned and all he saw was dust, and the swinging saloon doors. I hadn’t finished my whiskey yet, didn’t want to waste my money. The man cursed and shouted but didn’t come back inside; instead he threatened and warned that I’d have to come out sometime and that he’d wait for me until I did. I’d embarrassed him, see, and if he came back in to beat the living daylights out of me he’d be going back on his word (not that his, or for that matter anyone’s, word meant much) and it would ruin what reputation he had. So he planted his sorry ass outside the door of the bar and I enjoyed my whiskey. I enjoyed it so much, in fact, that the sun had just started setting and long shadows were spilling all over the chairs and tables. Patrons were giving me a funny look as they slowly trickled out of the bar, but I ignored them and tried to clarify my options.
The barkeep cleared his throat and gestured to the clocktower. It was getting late. I forked out some money, then came up with an idea. I gave him a very generous tip and asked if there was a back exit. His eyes widened and he gulped in fear, but he nodded and tilted his head towards the rear of the bar. I thanked him and sure enough there was a door that swung open to the side of the saloon, an alleyway nestled between it and the bank next door. I walked to the front corner, peeking my head around the building to see if the stranger was there. He seemed to be about to fall asleep, but there he was, leaning on the wall with his back to me. I looked for a moment and found a metal crowbar on top of a dusty anvil behind the stranger, so careful to not make any noise, I crept up toward the anvil and picked up the crowbar. Then, losing all pretence of silence, I ran at the stranger, feet crunching loudly on the dirt. The stranger turned, confusion quickly melting away into surprise, then to fear as I brought the crowbar down with a grunt. The crowbar connected and an unpleasant cracking sound echoed through the town, and the stranger crumpled like a sack of potatoes. I dropped the crowbar and spat on the still body of the stranger.
“I told you you were messing with the wrong passenger, stranger.”
I left town immediately afterwards.