The Tumbleweeds Roll Past..

jhiggins

jhiggins

Joined
Jul 11, 2003
Messages
3,258
...the long lonesome street called "ShopTalk Alley".

**theme from Good, Bad, and the Ugly whistles in the background**

**The narrator (me) hikes up his belt**

Yep, gonna be a lo-oong lonesome time here at ShopTalk Saloon with all them fellers off in Atlanta.

**Wind blows**

**Narrator picks his teeth... looks at his findings...**

Yep.

**Another tumbleweed rolls past**

Yep. **sighs**

**Narrator looks at his fingernails, absentmindedly scratches his arse**

Sure is quiet 'round here. Mebbe I best git my self a chunk o' steel an' start a-poundin' on it. Yep.

**Wind and dust blow down the alley. The Narrator gets on his feet and shuffles back into the smithy**
 
***And then appears at the end of the street, a knockoff manufacturer, with his gun slung low. Jhiggins shifts his hat brim, and steps out to accept the challenge, his .45 long Colt well oiled and ready. Today jhiggins sets things right with the knife world.***
 
Suddenly 5 more of the knockoff buildin design rustlers step out from behind the saloon. They multiply faster'n jackrabbits in a 1000 acres of alfalfa. It looks like its goin to be a tough day for sheriff Higgins.

Hoofbeats sound rapidly in the distance. Along comes Ray Richards riding on clint, he's got a good old fashioned scattergun slung over his shoulder, a bearded hawk an a big old bowie in his belt an he's not smilin. "We don't take to kindly to your type round here..."
More hoofbeats as a horse trots in, its former rider screaming obscenities as he's drug along behind, his left foot caught in the stirrup. The horse stops right next to Ray and Jeff. Matt slowly stands up and brushes the dust off before reaching for the rifle in the saddle scabbard. "Your damn right we don't"
Michael Spangler steps out of the towns one and only restaurant. He tosses his apron to the side and pulls a damascus butchers knife out of his belt.
John Andrews is seen further down the street.
It looks like a posse is starting to form.
Sheriff Higgins takes one step forward with a steely glare "You brand copyin sons of bitches better hit that trail hard while ya still can..."
 
The piano player in the salon realizes that all is not well. The music stops and the only sounds are the whistling of the wind through loose timbers and the call of the hawk that's circling overhead. Oddly there's a strange sound from up on the Saloon roof that sounds a lot like somebody jacking a round in the chamber of an old Winchester model 94, but only a few on that dusty street hear it.

The local whore, Lydia, who'd been strutting on the worn plank boardwalk picks up her trusses and hustles into the casino, looking furtively over her shoulder.

The shadow of the hawk passes over the sheriff...
 
The shadow of the hawk passes over the sheriff...

The Sweany Gang was a nasty bunch. Their reputation spread far and wide. Their inventory of knockoff horrors was growing faster than Chinese Gucci Handbags. Mike Sweany, leader of the gang, grew up in a whore house on the outskirts of Tulsa. His momma tried to raise him right, but he fell in with the local criminal element and soon became a sharpshooter for an evil land baron. His skills with a rifle were legendary. Some say he could shoot a fly off a goat's dink from 500 yards.

Other members of the gang were equally tough. Malicious Mark Williams was there, brandishing his triple-headed damascus warhawk. Injun George sidled up to Sweany, the scowl on his face equally as menacing as the twin squirt guns on his hips, loaded with the dreaded relish. Rounding out the crew was Pecos Peter Nap, Mongo (of course), and Brownville Dan.

Sheriff Higgins cocked his revolvers and hollered, "Y'all aint welcome here. Move along, or we're gonna stomp a big ol' mudhole in your arse, Sweany! I'm givin' ya 'til the count of three! ONE... TWO...
 
peter nap said:
I think all that grinding is getting you high J.
Click to expand...
HEHEHE!!! You can tell that he doesn't wear a mask. Sheriff you are suppose to use the glue on the knives and not up your nose. :eek: :D
 
Yeah, these blade shows, even though exciting for those that can attend, are lonely times for me too. I have never attended one and wonder if I would want to table one. I know I would love walking around within one. Just can't swing it for now.

RL
 
Everybody is going to think we are pathetic. He he he. Funny stuff.


Sheriff Higgins cocked his revolvers and hollered, "Y'all aint welcome here. Move along, or we're gonna stomp a big ol' mudhole in your arse, Sweany! I'm givin' ya 'til the count of three! ONE... TWO... BOOM went sheriff Higgin's mighty sixguns. After the cloud of acrid blue smoke cleared he snicked "Cant count higher then two", "Fart" "Burp".
The gang had scattered as the guns started firing. Malicious Mark had scampered into the local saloon. He walked up and slapped the barkeep and hollered. "Gimme yer purtiest whiskey and your oldest whore". The Sweany gang was known for being mean, not smart. Outside in the streets, the locals had baracaded their doors...........
 
Finally and just in time He came riding in from the south east road of town, the meanest ugliest abs marshal ever, a gunaxe slung low on his hip and a matched pair of nickel plated saber revolvers under each of his sweat stained arms. He brings his black stalion to a halt in front of the livery stable, shaking off the road dust he eyeballs mainstreet. There are guns on every rooftop and boards on every window. The tension is so thick you could cut it with one of Ray Richards knives. Whats all the cows doing in the saloon and wheres all the whores? This town has gone ta hell in a handbasket!
 
"WE"? I was getting worried, we haven't heard much out of you lately, Sweeney. You got good punchlines, guy.
 
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