Eclipsed.

From out of the South, where men are men and women do as they are bloody well told, he’d made the journey. He brought with him a huge, well won reputation for violent kills. Many had stood in his way but few had lived to tell the tale. A couple had been lucky enough to have escaped the ultimate grizzly fate, of being mercilessly shot down in the blazing sun, in the back street of a no name, tiny, piss-ant town in the middle of some bumfuck county. Everybody knew he was coming to do the business, he’d made the long hazardous trek across the countryside, with the sole ambition of adding yet another notch to his well worn, low slung gun. His arrival had been long heralded, now the time was about to come for him to test his mettle once more. There were those who quite rightly, lived in fear of his powerful account, but there were also those who thought his fame had been bought in a cheap demeaning fashion. That he’d built a name for himself on the back of doing little more than ripping down big headed, second raters.

The population of Sandown’s main street had steadily built in numbers, from around high noon onward. The clash of the two trigger-men was still several hours off yet, but the expectation among the locals had filled the air with a sense of both excitement and terror. Almost exclusively, the thoroughfare reeked of testosterone, horse dung and alcohol. This was no place for hysterical women and screaming children. The letting of blood was a time honoured event that only a man had the dignity to endure. It was the woman’s place to tearfully await, behind closed doors, the safe return of her protector and provider.

As the sun slowly beat it’s way Westward, the steady trickle of a now boozed up sea of humanity, had made a point of descending upon the ramshackle rail station. The intoxicated yabber of the locals, filled the air surrounding the station platform, like a throat restricting dust storm. Just about the whole country side had made it’s way to town to witness the showdown between the two combatants.

The home grown talent, was a real piece of work, a force of nature. He’d stepped up to the big time when he’d sent the Derby Dude to the bone orchard, with a speed unseen before. He’d been wickedly quick that fateful sunny day. Fresh from the easy kill, and now feeling bullet proof, he crossed the river and set upon Frenchie the Flash. Another easy notch to his gun. And now he sat alone in the saloon, his thoughts on his own future. He had no fear, he thought nothing of the stranger due in on the 11:10 from Aidensburg. As a liquidator, he knew the secret to survival, was to make sure that he took care of his own end of the business as best he could. If he could front the showdown feeling calm and confident, he’d be half way home. He had no say in whatever the interloper brought to the street, and quite frankly, he didn’t give a flying fig.

As the final hour drew on, more and more eyes were directed toward where the smoke belching, iron monster would emerge. In time, a faint black smudge eventually etched its presence in the azure skies, heralding the imminent arrival of the wanton assassin from the great wilderness in the South. Half an hour later, the smudge grew into a huge black stain that filled the air with a deathly portent. Someone was going to die, and the pall of acrid smoke seemed a testament to what was about to unfold.

By the time the Brock & Wellham built Shadowmaker steamed into the grubby little township, the rail platform that ran adjacent to the main road, had taken on a rather lopsided distribution of the masses. The direct path to the main street was deserted. But the neighbouring surroundings hung thick with rubber necking yokels. Nobody wanted to even come close to interfacing with the brooding menace which was to step from the locomotive.

Within minutes, he was on the boardwalk. He wasn’t exactly a giant among men, but he was a huge specimen nonetheless. Built like a brick ****house, he was broad of shoulder and hid a frame beneath his sombre outfit, that left no doubt as to his potential to violently end life. Lurking behind the hooded eyes lay a malevolence that sought a source of validation. That end would come with the sight of the local gunfighter’s bloody corpse, sprawled in the dust bowl that passed for a street.

Like a pyromaniacs, drawn to a naked flame, the two protagonists were inexorably lured to the scene of the impending clash. Situations such as these were best handled quickly. To sit and wait, served only to ratchet up the tension. Almost in unison, the gunmen stepped down into street. Still some fifty yards apart, both men stood stone still, as though mesmerized by what they saw. The local fighter slowly slipped his 45 from his holster and let his arm drop to his side. He figured that his best chance was to take the initiative.

The visitor was a little bemused by what he saw, but he had no option other than to match the actions of stout hearted, home grown product. He lifted his iron and held it by his hip. Then they slowly began to move in on one another. As the distance between them closed, the hot desert air hung heavy with dread. Death was about to make it’s presence felt.

Just fifteen yards separates the belligerents when they made their play. The local killer was first to commit to action. With lightning speed, he threw his Colt into the fight. He didn’t get to squeeze off a single shot. Before he could bring his weapon to account, he received a face full of lead, that blew away the back of his head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7MAz9NY44Qc

 

...........The victorious gunslinger holstered his Colt, mounted his trusty steed, and rode west into the sunset.
Yet something niggled him- and had done for quite a while.
Yes, he knew how good he was, but he was missing that something, that something extra which would make him the best there ever was.
Two tiring weeks later, he rode into Dodge City and tethered his horse in front of the saloon.
Pushing open the swing doors, his heart bounded as he saw, seated in the corner, the man he was looking for.
John Wesley Hardin had been the fastest gun alive in his time, but now he was just a frail old man.
“Old Timer, “ the gunslinger said to him. “ I want your advice. I’m fast but I know I can be faster- and the best. I want you to watch me draw.”
Then, like lightning, the gun appeared from nowhere, and the slinger shot off the right-hand cufflink of the piano player.
“Not bad,” retorted the ageing Hardin, “ but tie your holster a little lower and draw again.”
This time the draw was even faster- and the bullet decimated the piano player’s left-hand cufflink.
“Anything else?” he asked the old man.
“Why don’t you cut a little notch out of the top of your holster- so that it totally frees up the hammer as you take out the gun.”
The slinger cut out a notch slightly bigger than the hammer, holstered the gun, and in a blur he drew and shot the cigar out of the piano players mouth.
Boy, he felt good.
Now he knew for sure he really was the best!
“ Anything else, old timer?” he enquired.
“Just one last thing,” Hardin grunted....
“ See that axle grease on the floor near the bar. Take a handful and rub it all over your gun. Go on, just do it!”
Puzzled, the slinger rubbed the grease all over the barrel, but the old man prompted him to rub it over the whole gun.
“ What on earth is this for- and what use can this be?” bellowed the slinger, as he stared at Hardin with narrowed, steely eyes.
“Cos,” Hardin said laughingly.....
“When Wyatt Earp has finished playing that piano, he’s gonna stick that Colt 45 right up your scrawny arse!”

Nice one, Cyclonic!!

 

After his brief but embarrassing exchange with that piano playing son of a bitch, Wyatt Earp, the Liquidator sidled out of the batwings and slowly, but carefully mounted his faithful steed. The last place he wanted to be right now, was Dodge City. As far as he was concerned, the place was full of anally obsessed perverts. It was no place for real men. He pulled his prad's head to the West, and with a single cheek wedged firmly into his well worn saddle, he made his painful way out of the God forsaken ****hole.

Once out on the open range, he began to feel himself again, he was glad that nobody was watching. Several hours into the aimless ride, he made up his mind. He pulled his fob watch from his tattered vest and checked the time, then glanced into the blazing sky. Yes they were both still there. These two procedures also helped him to get a bead on just where he was. A slight adjustment to the rein saw him now heading toward Tombstone. After beefing the a few bignoters along the way, he finally sighted the famous township.

An hour later he'd slipped from the saddle and made his way into the Pig's Arse Saloon and breasted the bar. After sinking a few hits of Ol' Red Eye, he ambled outside to find accomodation for both he and his animal. "Ahhh ****." There was a vacant space where his horse used to be.

As angry as ****, he flew back to the bar and smashed his shooter down on the bar. The place fell deadly quiet. The barman, a look of fear etched on his poor excuse for a face, stammered. "Problem Mister?"

"Some prick has done stole my ****en' horse." He hissed through clenched yellow teeth. "I'm gunna have one more drink, and if my hoss ain't back, I'm just gunna have to do what I did in Abilene."

Sure enough the horse was back as soon as he'd finished his shot. As he took the rein and led the animal in the direction of the stable across the way, he heard the bartender's voice behind him. "What the **** did you do in Abilene?"

The voice pulled the killer up stone dead. "What the hell do you think happened?" He spat. "I had to ****en' walk home!"

 

Love it, Cyclonic- especially the bits about "anally obsessed Perverts" and "with a single cheek wedged firmly into his well worn saddle."
PS. Wyatt Earp must have really rammed that gun home!