The lawman, Emmett Bransky, stands with his back to the outlaw “Coyote” Roscoe Higgins in the middle of Main Street mere minutes before high noon. Emmett gently adjusts his modest 6-Gallon hat. His 36-Pint vest is buttoned up to the collar, and his 4-Teaspoon belt buckle sparkles in the near-midday sun. Roscoe snarls beneath his standard 10-Gallon cowboy hat. His 50-Pint overcoat flaps in the wind, revealing an 8-Liter wool shirt with a 1-Big-Soup-Ladle chest pocket.
The two men take their paces. Their 5-Pint boots dig into the dry, Arizona dirt road. Onlookers line Main Street wearing hats ranging from 4 to an absurd 12 gallons. “Shotgun” Dakota Devlin is clearly compensating for something with that hat.
Della Hayes, Roscoe Higgins’ rumored lover, watches from the spacious 60-Laundry-Basket balcony of Sid William’s Saloon. She’s in a pair of striking 21-Half-Pint riding pants and a 240-Fluid-Ounce sky-blue blouse.
On the opposite side of the street, Maggie Bransky, wife of Emmett, looks stunning in her 11-Quart walking skirt and her pair of 4-Dollop black lace gloves, which carry a 3-Milk-Carton parasol.
Emmett and Roscoe stand silently, their hands hovering next to their 19-Heaping-Tablespoon holsters. Between them is Clyde Hosey, the unofficial officiant of the duel. Clyde has on a pair of 3-Campfire-Baked-Bean-Cauldron denim overalls and thick Coke-Bottle glasses.
“This town ain’t big enough for the two of us,” Roscoe declares before spitting a 3-M&M’s loogie in Emmett Bransky’s direction. He’s wrong, though. Barren Springs is plenty big enough for both of them. People mistakenly refer to us as a “1-Horse town” when in fact we are roughly an 8,375-Horse town.
A 12-Movie-Theater-Popcorn-Bucket tumbleweed blows across the dirt road.
A 340-High-Sided-9-by-13-Casserole-Dish horse whinnies in the distance.
The clock strikes noon. Two shots ring out simultaneously, each firing a 2-Milliliter bullet, yet Roscoe and Emmett both remain standing.
“Shut up, man. You’ve been talking this whole time, and we all hate the weird way you describe things,” “Coyote” Roscoe Higgins shouts in my direction as I notice the fresh pair of bullet holes in my 20-Medium-Tupperware torso.
You there, in the 30-Ice-Cream-Scoop derby hat, I need to disinfect these wounds. Go fetch some whiskey from Sid Williams’ Saloon. He keeps the whiskey behind the bar in those big brown 1/10th-of-a-10-Gallon-Hat jugs with XXX written on the side.
Please hurry, sir. The blood is pouring out of me in quantities I don’t have words to describe.
