If I were in a Western I'd want to wear big cowboy boots and an oversized hat. One of my teeth would be missing - except it wouldn't really... I'd have covered it in soot so it looked like it was missing. There'd be a red and white spotty rag tied around my neck and I'd have a snarl... When I raised my lip on the right-hand side of my mouth my gappy teeth would show.
It would be dusty. Everywhere dusty, and so scorching hot the wooden shacks on either side of the dry road would wobble when you looked at them. An old man in a hat with a beard so long it touched his chest would sit outside a long closed chemist - hat tipped over his eyes, would sleep. His snore gently wafting on the heat-waves. Four empty beer bottles left under his chair, long forgotten and sand coated, attracting roaches and giant ants.
And there I'd be. Hat too big and shoes too clumpy. My gun in my holster I'd have just left the saloon after drinking 'Smokey Joe's Cough Medicine'... clunk clunk clunk, go my boots.
"Hey thur..." Shouts a stout, dark haired, dirty looking man.
"Who, me?"
"Yar, you... You're new in these here parts"
"I am"
"Well thun I say it's time for a showdown"
Cue tumbleweeds. (And a bit of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly music.)
We walk up to stand face to face. He smells of sour beer, his stubble days old and gritty. The heat is rising and a bird flies past. He has a lazy eye which makes me grin, but not too much for I am frightened he may shoot me like a dog if I laugh in his face. There is an ant crawling on my knee and I want to squish it, but now is not the time..We turn... back to back.
"On three, we walk" I say, "and after four paces we turn... and then....."
"And thun...."
"One. Two. Three"
Slowly our backs leave each other. I hear his boots grind into the stones. My hands shake by my holster. Beads of sweat forming on my brow I imagine sweat trickling from under his hat. Step four, I spin round and the sun momentarily strikes my face. I turn, he turns... there's a lot of turning going on. Guns out of holster...
BANG -simultaneous.
Silence. Nothing happens. Time has stopped as smoke slowly drifts out of our guns. The town hall clock stops ticking...
Together we fall. Both hit. My hat, too big, slides off the back of my head as I fall backward. He crumples down, gun slipping out of his hand, knees buckling forward. Eight paces apart falling together. His face crashes to the dirt, stones searing into his cheek. I smash onto the road sand puffing out from underneath me. I see the brilliant blue sky above. The sun strikes my face again... I think about his lazy eye. I start laughing.
If I were in a western.
It would be dusty. Everywhere dusty, and so scorching hot the wooden shacks on either side of the dry road would wobble when you looked at them. An old man in a hat with a beard so long it touched his chest would sit outside a long closed chemist - hat tipped over his eyes, would sleep. His snore gently wafting on the heat-waves. Four empty beer bottles left under his chair, long forgotten and sand coated, attracting roaches and giant ants.
And there I'd be. Hat too big and shoes too clumpy. My gun in my holster I'd have just left the saloon after drinking 'Smokey Joe's Cough Medicine'... clunk clunk clunk, go my boots.
"Hey thur..." Shouts a stout, dark haired, dirty looking man.
"Who, me?"
"Yar, you... You're new in these here parts"
"I am"
"Well thun I say it's time for a showdown"
Cue tumbleweeds. (And a bit of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly music.)
We walk up to stand face to face. He smells of sour beer, his stubble days old and gritty. The heat is rising and a bird flies past. He has a lazy eye which makes me grin, but not too much for I am frightened he may shoot me like a dog if I laugh in his face. There is an ant crawling on my knee and I want to squish it, but now is not the time..We turn... back to back.
"On three, we walk" I say, "and after four paces we turn... and then....."
"And thun...."
"One. Two. Three"
Slowly our backs leave each other. I hear his boots grind into the stones. My hands shake by my holster. Beads of sweat forming on my brow I imagine sweat trickling from under his hat. Step four, I spin round and the sun momentarily strikes my face. I turn, he turns... there's a lot of turning going on. Guns out of holster...
BANG -simultaneous.
Silence. Nothing happens. Time has stopped as smoke slowly drifts out of our guns. The town hall clock stops ticking...
Together we fall. Both hit. My hat, too big, slides off the back of my head as I fall backward. He crumples down, gun slipping out of his hand, knees buckling forward. Eight paces apart falling together. His face crashes to the dirt, stones searing into his cheek. I smash onto the road sand puffing out from underneath me. I see the brilliant blue sky above. The sun strikes my face again... I think about his lazy eye. I start laughing.
If I were in a western.
