Cowboy of the Western Badlands

Description from original post (created 2015-10-17 17:43):

Sitting in a bar, our typical cowboy from the Badlands of Western North America is sitting in a bar, waiting for the wench to serve him his whiskey. He notices a man, with scars all over his body and the face of a battle-scarred madman. He's got messy brown hair, cracked skin, a devilish bandana, and it seems as if a corpse came from his grave to this little settlement. The crooked man looks over at our skeptical cowboy, and grunts. Shyly, the cowboy sits back in his chair, not as confident as he was when his day started. The man approaches the wench, and croaks out words with the raspiest voice anyone's ever seen or heard of. "Hand over three bottles a' whiskey and all the gold you own, now, or me and my boys'll blow up your little poor establishment here." Suddenly, next thing the cowboy knows, there's a revolver pressed against both his and the wench's head. Hoping for a simple, casual day has seem to become very hard after the cowboy travelled to the west from the Minnesota territory. He thought the change in temperatures would be his biggest problem. And now, here he is, with a death no man deserves, a death of no honour. The cowboy looks around, and it seems the other two poor citizens in the doomed bar are also being threatened with a bullet to the brain, as two other outlaws have entered the bar. The wench nervously hands over her belongings, and the man smiles with the grin of a sinner. Everyone's just out for the money these days, aren't they? Morals seem to be non-existent in these Badlands. The outlaws leave the bar, and suddenly, to everyone's surprise, one of the men drop to the floor, cold and dead, with a bullet to the head. Heh, I guess karma and irony worked hard on him. The other men begin to flee, and the shouts of the Sheriff can be heard from down the street. Hey, at least you didn't die today, cowboy. Back to the old grind of whiskey it is.