A Western in 7ish Acts


A strangers enters the bar.
“You think you can just come into my bar and pull a gun on me?
I reckon you do, don’t you?”

He finishes his drink and turns around.
“I’m thinking you’re here about this money, here. Judging by the look of you, you ain’t law either…just some rat trying to pick up my scraps when the shootings stopped and the hard work is done”

His dusty boots kick the canvas bag stuffed with dirty money.
“Go ahead, friend. Take it. See how far you can get with it. The Law’s not too far out. But you look younger and you ain’t bleedin, so I figure you’ve got yourself a pretty good chance of getting out of here. That is…if I don’t shoot you first.”

He looks at his fingers, covered in blood, and wipes them on his shirt.
“It’s up to you, friend. Look at me. I’ve seen better days. Hell, this might be my last. So what do you think…you going to pull out that gun of yours or are you going to sit down here, have a drink and we can wait for the Law or the Lord to decide who gets to walk out a rich man.”

A shot. The stranger falls, reaching for the hole in his back.
“Well, shit. Looks like I get to trade young blood for someone with an itchy trigger finger.”

Three men enter the bar.
“Make that three men with itchy trigger fingers. And shiny gold stars.
You ride fast, boys. Figured you be here by tonight at the earliest. But…you’re here now. So let’s have it. Three of you, versus my drink and reputation.”

The three pull out their guns, the man drops his glass on the floor.
“Reckon, no matter how this bit turns out. Drinking from the bottle will be the best way. So…how ’bout it. Fire when ready, boys!”

He shoots two of the marshals. The third, turns and runs out the door.
“Ah fuck, it’s always the third policeman you’ve got to watch out for. They are always the sneakiest.”

Grabbing the bottle he makes his way to the open door, gun hanging loosely from his finger tips.
“Now where did that young upstart get off to? Come on, boy! I know you’re not afraid of a little gunfire. Come! Claim your fortune, claim your celebrity. They’ll write songs about you. The man that finally shot me down!”

The street is quiet. Civilians have a habit of hiding when the guns come out.
“Where you get to, young blood? Ah…there you are. Finally! Your mother give you permission to come out and play! And look…you brought a toy. You brought a canon. A fucking canon! Oh…you do mean business.”

One last drink, one last look around. What chance does a six shooter have against a canon ball?
“I don’t like my chances here, boy. I think you may be a hero in the next few minutes.”

The explosion shakes the town, echoes and breaking glass planes.
“Ha! You bring a canon boy. You think that’s the big surprise that’s going to beat me?
I just blew up half the fucking town! You think, I’m going to let anyone take me…or my hard earned money…without a fight? Without some kind of back up plan escape route?
Thanks for the horse, boy!”

He climbs onto a horse, calming it down. The money slung over the saddle.
“Don’t worry, little lady. It will be a short ride. I have no fight left and that was my last hurrah. So let’s just get on then, give this dying man a little peace and quiet before he finally kicks it. And, tell ya what, the money…why don’t you keep it. You seem like a nice horse.”

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About litbandit

El Bandito Bibliotequa...or something.
This entry was posted in Writing and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to A Western in 7ish Acts

  1. An interesting story. A few typos, but enthralling.

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