GuNNhead

I’ve walked for days now, this was supposed to be my last ride, I was quittin’ the gun-fer-hire gig, and startin’ up again, settlin’ down, forgettin’ my shady past.

Then my gawd-danged horse kicked the bucket up out in the middle o’ nowherr. Danged varmint just up and keeled over without so much as a toodle-oo. Sent my keester off in a hurry, knocked my head but good, lost the trail too, leaving me lost and stranded in the desert. I don’t see nothin’ o’er this next ridge, I strongly doubt that I’ll be seein’ my way outta this pickle. Makes me remember my life’n’how I got started on this crazy path that’ll end in a way I ain’t never expected. I always expected a bullit in the gut ter end it fer me. That’s why I quit, hung up my guns, so to speak. My pappy was a gunsmith, made guns fer a livin, don’t know if he ever knew how to use ‘em hisself, but dang did he make a high quality weapon. People all o’er the wild west came to get themselves one o’ m’dad’s guns. He tought me how to make ‘em just like him. I trained myself to become a trick shooter, makin’ some extra cash by doin’ shows in the surroundin’ towns. One night when I came back, I found my dear ol’ pappy shot dead o’er one of his guns, some no good rustler came by and shot my pappy o’er a gun. From that day, I ain’t had nothin’ to live for, and used my trick shootin’ skills to outdraw any man who looked at me crossed, hopin’ that one day, I may just axerdently kill the dirt what killed my pappy.

Give me one more day.

Now, I just feel there’s too much blood on these hands, and that ain’t the life I want no more. I want to settle down, ain’t no one gunna know me, and I’m gunna open a shop, and make toy guns, ones that can’t hurt no-one. I’m gunna use air pressure, t’make guns that fire nothin’ but water, and ones that send sand flyin’ out, fer simple self defence. Life was gunna be good.

Nothing will come between me and my success.

Suddenly, I see lights on the horizon, could be nothin’, could be my new life, I made it. I make it to the top of the ridge, and see it, it’s glorious, more amazin’ than I ever could have imagined. Acturlly, it don’t look like no town I ever seen. It’s teensy, about the size of a single house, only. A large, silver bullit, just floatin’. It’s glowin’ green unnerneath it something fierce. I approach it, slowly.

N’that’s alls I kin remember.

“Oh my, that’s quite the story.” Said the nasally voice.

“Indeed it is,” said the phlegmatic voice, “for a head in a jar.”

This entry was posted on July 30, 2009 at 5:58 am and is filed under Fiction, Western. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.