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"There's not enough room in this forum for the two of us." FM slammed his emptied whisky glass down on the wooden counter. "Step outside, Grix......"
Grix eyed FM carefully. They'd known each other for a long time, but things had been gettin' a little strained lately."
"What's this about, FM," he demanded, making his way through the packed but hushed saloon and pushing the swinging doors outwards as he stepped onto the dusty ground outside.
"Well," replied FM, pushing open the doors again and following Grix outside into the hot, dry air, "You've bushwhacked one of my topics just one time too many. It's time we had this out. Mano a Mano. Poster to Poster."
Grix paused in his stride to think of a witty retort about FM's last comment, then decided that now was probably not the time.
"So, what's it to be? 10 paces, turn and fire?" asked Grix, making sure his gunbelt was fastened properly.
"You know me better than that, Grix. 30 paces." FM checked his gunbelt. The Smith and Wesson 6-shot revolver hung loosely at his right hip.
They stood back to back under the glare of the midday sun, and started to count.....
1....2....3....
The occupants of the saloon were packing the windows trying to get a glimpse of the showdown outside. This was unheard of. The last shootout in the town of Last Chance Reserve had been quite a time ago, when the Er-no posse had cleaned out the Desperate Dans, but this was different. Two equally matched opponents were about to face off.
Insane Bartender was going even more nuts behind the saloon's counter because he was losing good sales whilst all this was going on.
Outside, the count was at 25.... as FM glanced to his right and saw PB on the roof of the Red Splat Hotel and Boarding House, shotgun at hand. PB nodded with a knowing look. FM nodded back.
The count was 26.... as Grix looked across to the SR Saddlery, where he spied Sniper with his trusty Winchester Rifle. Grix gave a brief nod. Sniper returned it.
27....28...29..
Dust whirled up as both men spun to face each other. The blast of PB's shotgun firing both barrels broke the deafening silence that preceeded it, and a cloud of sand flew up at Grix's feet as the buckshot ploughed into the ground.
Grix drew his gun and took aim, FM was still drawing his because he was left handed and his belt was on the wrong way, Sniper fired his rifle, and there was a sharp report, then a clatter as PB dropped his shotgun and swandived off the roof of the hotel and landed in a horse trough.
FM grappled with his pistol, it had snagged in the holster, and he reminded himself to be more careful where he left his chewing gum.
Grix took pity. (No he didn't). Grix fired his gun. Fortunately, FM and done his research and Grix's eyesight wasn't as good as it should have been, and at 30 paces it was like trying to read a Wanted Poster through a mirage. Grix's first bullet flew out of town faster than a newbie Gameaday winner. He wasn't sure if he had hit FM or not, but then he heard FM pull back the hammer of his Smith and Wesson with a
*click*
Grix eyed FM carefully. They'd known each other for a long time, but things had been gettin' a little strained lately."
"What's this about, FM," he demanded, making his way through the packed but hushed saloon and pushing the swinging doors outwards as he stepped onto the dusty ground outside.
"Well," replied FM, pushing open the doors again and following Grix outside into the hot, dry air, "You've bushwhacked one of my topics just one time too many. It's time we had this out. Mano a Mano. Poster to Poster."
Grix paused in his stride to think of a witty retort about FM's last comment, then decided that now was probably not the time.
"So, what's it to be? 10 paces, turn and fire?" asked Grix, making sure his gunbelt was fastened properly.
"You know me better than that, Grix. 30 paces." FM checked his gunbelt. The Smith and Wesson 6-shot revolver hung loosely at his right hip.
They stood back to back under the glare of the midday sun, and started to count.....
1....2....3....
The occupants of the saloon were packing the windows trying to get a glimpse of the showdown outside. This was unheard of. The last shootout in the town of Last Chance Reserve had been quite a time ago, when the Er-no posse had cleaned out the Desperate Dans, but this was different. Two equally matched opponents were about to face off.
Insane Bartender was going even more nuts behind the saloon's counter because he was losing good sales whilst all this was going on.
Outside, the count was at 25.... as FM glanced to his right and saw PB on the roof of the Red Splat Hotel and Boarding House, shotgun at hand. PB nodded with a knowing look. FM nodded back.
The count was 26.... as Grix looked across to the SR Saddlery, where he spied Sniper with his trusty Winchester Rifle. Grix gave a brief nod. Sniper returned it.
27....28...29..
Dust whirled up as both men spun to face each other. The blast of PB's shotgun firing both barrels broke the deafening silence that preceeded it, and a cloud of sand flew up at Grix's feet as the buckshot ploughed into the ground.
Grix drew his gun and took aim, FM was still drawing his because he was left handed and his belt was on the wrong way, Sniper fired his rifle, and there was a sharp report, then a clatter as PB dropped his shotgun and swandived off the roof of the hotel and landed in a horse trough.
FM grappled with his pistol, it had snagged in the holster, and he reminded himself to be more careful where he left his chewing gum.
Grix took pity. (No he didn't). Grix fired his gun. Fortunately, FM and done his research and Grix's eyesight wasn't as good as it should have been, and at 30 paces it was like trying to read a Wanted Poster through a mirage. Grix's first bullet flew out of town faster than a newbie Gameaday winner. He wasn't sure if he had hit FM or not, but then he heard FM pull back the hammer of his Smith and Wesson with a
*click*
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I don't even know what started it in the first place, Fant... err sorry, Fubu... :0)
But Mouldy Cheese had forgot about oxygen.
*SPLAT*
*SPLAT*
As the Ant colony marched, and everyone else miraculously came back to life, a lump of very mature cheese watched from his fortress on the moon.
'soon', he said. 'very soon'.
'soon', he said. 'very soon'.
I don't mind good poetry.
...What?
...What?
It is true it must be said,
That a fixed style of writing ne'er enters my head.
My thoughts are transient, like a flowing river,
'Cos if you get in too deep you start to shiver.
FM: Posting poetry because he knows Grix loves it.
That a fixed style of writing ne'er enters my head.
My thoughts are transient, like a flowing river,
'Cos if you get in too deep you start to shiver.
FM: Posting poetry because he knows Grix loves it.
His metaphorical abilities flowed from the tongue with a wind of sincerity... but never enough to commit himself to a certain method, or style.
FM's amazing aliteration astounded Ant, and aslo arguably anyone else too.
Calm again...
Grix had regained life, still unsure why, and FantasyMeister, who had really ruined his day, was nowhere to be found.
Insane Bartender, was also, nowhere to be found.
The man with no name, who everybody just called "Bob", walked up to Grix.
"They've all left town... heard shooting, and ran like the dogs that they are."
Grix adjusted his black hat... and black jacket... and black boots, and stepped out into the open again, looking for survivors... and dead blokes as well.
Sniper was the first he found. He was alive... unfortunatly.
pb climbed out of the barrel. "I'm not quite dead yet!"
He tried to pull himself out... but broke the barrel, and fell out.
Ant was being carried off by the colony, who had returned, and FantasyMeister was nowhere to be found.
Oh, I said that, didn't I?
Grix looked at his watch, and remember that The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly is on tonight, and he should record it.
He turned off the computer, with a
*click*
Grix had regained life, still unsure why, and FantasyMeister, who had really ruined his day, was nowhere to be found.
Insane Bartender, was also, nowhere to be found.
The man with no name, who everybody just called "Bob", walked up to Grix.
"They've all left town... heard shooting, and ran like the dogs that they are."
Grix adjusted his black hat... and black jacket... and black boots, and stepped out into the open again, looking for survivors... and dead blokes as well.
Sniper was the first he found. He was alive... unfortunatly.
pb climbed out of the barrel. "I'm not quite dead yet!"
He tried to pull himself out... but broke the barrel, and fell out.
Ant was being carried off by the colony, who had returned, and FantasyMeister was nowhere to be found.
Oh, I said that, didn't I?
Grix looked at his watch, and remember that The Good, The Bad, And The Ugly is on tonight, and he should record it.
He turned off the computer, with a
*click*
FM looked behind him as his hover hoss hurtled horrifically hairly threw the cactus strewn desert. He could make out the looming dustcloud behind him as the Ant colony marched relentlessly onwards towards him.
It was unfortunate, then, that at the same moment Sniper was just stepping out from behind a cactus and fastening his belt (I won't go into gory details here), but suffice it to say, the hoss slammed into him, and then slammed into a long row of cactii that just happened to be growing in a straight line for the next 2 miles.
It was over quickly, a small mercy for Sniper at least.
The hover hoss plummeted onwards towards the high ground, where FM had his band of outlaws encamped. If he could get to them, they might just be able to hold off their pursuers....
It was unfortunate, then, that at the same moment Sniper was just stepping out from behind a cactus and fastening his belt (I won't go into gory details here), but suffice it to say, the hoss slammed into him, and then slammed into a long row of cactii that just happened to be growing in a straight line for the next 2 miles.
It was over quickly, a small mercy for Sniper at least.
The hover hoss plummeted onwards towards the high ground, where FM had his band of outlaws encamped. If he could get to them, they might just be able to hold off their pursuers....
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