Tyree walked into the bar. It was the old west, and Tyree knew it. That’s why he was wearing two enormous six shooters on his hip. Just to be different, however, he had them both on the left and backwards like the Frisco kid because he was right-handed. “What’ll you have?” Came the voice of the crusty barkeep. Tyree squinted with fury. He never could hear too well and so always assumed that people were insulting him. He reached for his gun but he had a bit of the tree sloth in him. Four minutes later the gun was in his hand, cocked and ready. “Eh?” Said the barkeep, he had momentarily forgotten about the man. Tyree just kept talking, “I asked where do you want it?” He was growling like a bear. For the first time in his life, the barkeep knew fear. He began to sweat like he’d just eaten too many peppers. His eyes fluttered and he dreamed briefly of a game he used to play in his youth of his own devising. It was a game that involved two acorns and a duck. “I is talking to you patnah!” Tyree bellowed. The barkeep thought quickly. “How ’bout I have it in the chest of that guy standing over there?” The barkeep pointed. The man he was referring to was the local drunk. He was an enormous fat man who drank all day and never paid. The barkeep would be happy to get rid of him frankly. Tyree, amazingly, obliged. The cork came flying out of the pistol and struck the drunk in the chest. It left a slight impression which, when studied from the correct angle, read these peculiar words. “You have come chest to gun with a man called Tyree. Don’t you forget it, for I might be passing through this way again.”
The End