A badass duel to the death was the only way to resolve an argument like this. Ducky knew this, and he picked up his one-gallon hat and strode outside the saloon into the dust after Ropin’ Ross.

The shithole that he had called home for the last three months was going to see blood this day, and damned if it would be Ducky’s. Finally the two gunslingers stood face to face across the road, hands ready over their holsters.

“Best not let that dumbass bill get in the way of your shootin’ hand,” said Ropin’ Ross splendidly.

“Yeah, well I’ve been screwing your wife ever since I got here, you fat fuck,” Ducky retorted, desperately hoping Ropin’ Ross had a wife.

Ropin’ Ross smiled, “Nice try kid, but she’s been dead for three years!”
Ducky didn’t miss a beat.

“Must have been why she didn’t give me any trouble.”

A frown stretched across Ropin’ Ross’s gelatinous neckfat unnervingly. “You won’t still be smilin’ when your entrails are covering the dust, ya damn varmint. If yer gonna tie a goose to a post, you’d better make sure it’s September.”

Ducky nodded to the man. If nothing else the man was wise. And fat.
A tumbleweed rolled past and the two men shut up. The duel was about to begin. Ducky’s fingers wiggled over the holster.

The word “DRAW!” appeared in midair.

(Fun fact: Tying geese to a post during any month other than September is unadvisable. Brosheep did it once and look where he is now.)