Sigh. Couldn't get to Hi-Ex. Again. Have to console meself with a story.
PARTING SHOTS
Finigan Sinister and Kid Fony, the two most wanted outlaws in the history of the West. And in all the trains and banks they robbed, they never shot no-one [Citation needed]. This made our latter day Robin Hoods very popular [Weasel words]. That is, with everyone but the railroads and the banks.
And this is Tombstone, it's Tuesday October 26 1881 and Finigan Sinister turns to Ramone Dexter and says "FUUUUUNNNNTTT. Funt,funt,funt. Funtin' funtin', funtin' FUUUNNNTTT."
"Finny, get a grip, you'll burst something, people are staring." Ramone trades a shit eating grin for a withering look from a dour, old matriarch. "Heh, heh, sorry mam, my friend , he is loco," he cringes, twirling a finger at his temple.
"Ramone, we are in the funtin' old West instead of alternate Downlode, where the dimension jump should have sent us. I am very far from getting a funtin' grip."
"Look Finny, lets go get a drink and figure things out."
History records these two legends of the West walking into a saloon on Fremont street, ordering two shots of whiskey, whereupon the Clanton gang set about them [Citation needed].
"Amigo! Two shots of whiskey."
A voice from the back of the room, drunk and heavy with trouble. "Hey greaser, Mexicans ain't allowed in here."
Trouble just picked the wrong day to go drinking. The day high muzzle velocity death walked in.
"He's not Mexican, he's Span-"
"Well Goddamn, a Mexican AND a paddy."
No words pass between the two men at the bar. A glance and a slight nod to each other.
The barkeep, now fearing for his skin and his bar mirror, urgently whispers "Boys, you don't mess with Ike Clanton and his gang."
Dexter leans on the bar. "Way, way, way too late for that amigo," he smiles at the barman.
Sinister screws a smoke into his mouth and fires it up, casually challenges, "Come and have a go if you think you're hard enough. Cocksucker."
"Paddy bastard. Dr-"
BAM. BAM,BAM. BAM.
Sinister luxuriously blows out a stream of smoke that mingles with the gun smoke from Ray's automatic.
"You missed one."
"Oh yeah." BAM. "These guys can't shoot for shit."
A hard, don't fuck with me voice cuts through the smoke and the silence.
"Somebody gonna explain this?"
"Mi, mi, mi Marshal Earp! It was self defence," the barkeep manages to stutter. It wasn't but the bar tender has been in the trade a long time.
Sinister turns to the newcomer. The stone killer and the lawman regard each other coldly, then something unspoken passes between them. Enough respect, not today.
Earp speaks again, "The stage leaves in two hours, down the street by the OK Corral. Be on it." Then he turns and leaves.
