I am one of two cowboys, and this town is not big enough for the two of us.
The air is dry, typical for a town such as this. A tumbleweed passes through and all is silent, bar the creaking of the saloon doors. In the distance the whistling of a train.
I stare down my opponent: a typical cowboy, clad in denim and leather, his mustache curled into two perfectly symmetrical spirals.
I become increasingly aware of every click of the town clock's hands. It strikes twelve; It's high noon.
With a flash, he draws his gun and I piss myself. Seconds later I expire, forever known as the quickest piss in the west.
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