A lump formed in the marshall's throat. The person standing in front of him was no longer a little boy, but was now a man. And this transformation had only happened in the time they had been showing their downs.

The marshall tried to take a deep breath, but the tight girdle restricted his intake. He knew this would have to end soon.

"Wait, wot we talkin 'bout agin?"

"The poor deflowered palamino, you lousy son of a bandicoot!"

A wind had picked up and dust flew all about. Jamie had to cough out his words, and the marshall was partially obscured.

A drunken letch stumbles out of a house of ill repute and over towards the palamino. He proceeds to strike the beast.

"No you stupid horse, I said I needed a POSSE!!!"

"I dun know wut ya talkin 'bout. That aint no pal of mine, yo."

Suddenly a drum kit fell from a second stroy window. Ba dum crash!

The crashing of drums startled the Gunfighter! He jumped back, drew his pistols and started firing wildly stopping only when he heard the all too familiar click click click of spent revolvers.

Smoke and the smell of gun powder hung in front of his eyes, his arms still outstretch in a kill everybody motif.

The Letch startles at the sound of gunfire, slipping and falling on his kiester, his priorly unnoticed half-empty bottle of pineapple schnapps flying wide. He slowly rouses himself squinting up at the gunfighter with arms outstretched and sniffing the air.

"Oh lord it's Jesus sendin' me off ta hell..."

Bullets whizzing past the sherrif's tiara'd head caused him to snap out of his reverie. Grasping the pearl grip of his six-shooter, he managed to get it caught on the sequins on his dress. Yanking it to pull it free, he managed to blow a hole in his right foot. He began to hop around, holding his foot in agony, firing his remaining 20 shots in random directions.

As the smoke cleared, a scene reminiscent of a 3 stooges film was laid out in front of the gunfighters eyes. With his arms still outstretched and a trickle of sweat (he hoped) running down his legs, he began to breathe. His heart slowed down, as well, ceasing the pounding in his ears. The sheriff's screams buffetted his ears and the gunfighter, not wanting to feel left out, began screaming as well.

The sheriff suddenly felt alone, abandoned by those around him that he had loved as brothers. And some more intimately so.

He gestured feebly to the drunk.

"Hey, bud, yer wanna swap places? Tha bottom of dat bottle is lookin mighty invitin."