The year was 1950. It was a wicked and lawless time in the Old West. Grafitti which staked out the turf of the many rowdy gangs in town was everywhere. This was the Wild West where a man’s mettle was measured by how many drinks he could consume and still maintain a lightning draw and trigger finger. Men were MEN in those days and taking a round or two of lead was just part of a day’s work.
Something needed to be done to stem the tide of disorder in this small railroad town, so the town folks searched far and wide for a gunslinger willing to stare Death in the face and laugh at it. They found their man: “Fearless” Farkel was his name and gunfighting was his game. He stood three-foot-two and all of his hefty thirty five pounds was solid muscle. There was not a meaner or tougher man to be found.
Fearless calmly and slowly rode into town on his trusty hoss, cocked the Sombrero acquired from his Bounty Hunting days in the blazing Mexican sun and drew his Colt 44 “Peacemaker.” Every eye in town was on him. The ivory-handled grips of his sidearm were carved with the notches of the many victims foolish enough to take him on in the past. His over-alls were covered with a layer of dust from the long ride on the trail and his shirt looked like it could be a prison shirt. Was he in prison at one time? Did he escape? Did he have to shoot anyone to escape, people wondered? No one had the nerve to ask him about it. People figured he didn’t look like the sort who would take it kindly if asked those kinds of questions, so they wisely kept their questions to themselves.
Fearless stopped for a moment and pondered whether he should amble over to the saloon and toss down a few cold ones to slake his thirst before facing down his enemies. No, that wouldn’t be a good idea. Gotta keep an edge for those bandits.
Fearless was ready to face down the enemy even though the odds were overwhelmingly against him. He had a way about him that was just hard to explain. Standing down bandits was his stock-in-trade and he was good at it. In the entire two years of his life he’d never lost a battle with the enemy and he was determined not to lose this one, either.
“It’s not going to be a pretty sight,” he declared to the town. “There’s gonna be bloodshed, and it ain’t gonna be mine!” Suddenly, gunfire erupts! “It’s an ambush! Run for cover, everyone” he yells. Fearless fires round after round at the enemy and realizes something must be done, because he’s just about out of lead. He breaks into a sprint and tries to head for cover, but one of those varmints is waiting for him and ropes him in. Fearless valiantly fights the choking grip of the rope, but alas! He’s hog-tied and can’t escape. Tension is everywhere. The town gasps, breaking the deadly silence following the gunfire.
Fearless still had his weapon though, and a deep scowl furrowed a forehead made ruddy from the relentless Desert sun. He slowly slid his weapon up his leg as the gang leader stepped forward to claim his prize.
“You know with all the commotion, I can’t remember if I fired six shots or only five,” Fearless sneered at the leader. “So you got to be a’ askin’ yerself this ONE simple question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’ Well DO ya? PUNK!”
Ah, to be two years old again!
Farkel