Our so-called Lord has has laid down the law. Magna Carta means nothing to you? I'm a loner, Cormac, a rebel. But I've gotta go look for my bike, so no time to compose anything of quality. Sorry.
Well, how did I get here? Can't blame it on that bastard, Byrne. Fucker's been ivory towering at that existentialist convention for days. Fucking geek. Benny the Mechanic, jerk's been in the joint ever since Vinny the Rat ratted him out as rats are wont to do when not toting disease from burg to rusted-out burg. I told him moving product between fed bioweapons labs wouldn't pay for his liposuction.
Look at this shit, not a goddamn soul around, like some fucking Hollywood ghost town set with the fake storefronts and plastic tumbleweeds and wires strewn everywhere and incompetent PAs tripping over 'em. Hell of a storm last night to scare everyone off, I reckon.
Still don't know where these chaps and this Colt came from. I don't own a gun and never will. And it ain't Halloween. My head isn't splitting in half so no, not hungover. Oh, I know what she'd say, what a shock, blah blah blah.
Go fuck yourself. Wherever you are.
Where the hell am I?
Ha, ha, ha.
Shucks, everyone knows Lee Van was the coolest one of 'em all.
"Sure about that, pilgrim?"
"You see in this world there's two kinds of people, my friend. Those with loaded guns, and those who dig. You dig."
The first man turned to the second.
"You talking to me, pilgrim?"
What the fucking hell is going on?
No fucking way. Looks pretty spry for a man of nearly 80. I better duck outta sight or I'll get shot, really fucking shot.
Jesus fucking Christ!
"Where d'you think you're going, pilgrim?"
My boots, and my spurs, are glued to the spot. I know I'm not hungover. We covered that. Or drunk. And I know I ain't dreaming. This is far too fucking real.
"Are all ghosts stereotypes?"
He shot me the blackest glance. "The man told you to dig, pilgrim."
"He was talking to you, Marion." Big mistake.
The much-too-young Clint Eastwood just threw a shovel in the reddened dust kicked up by the much-too-dead John Wayne's bullet and my feet, bleeding wound and all, suddenly find that moving isn't much of a problem. Digging my own grave, I guess. Maybe. Again, what the fucking hell is going on?
I shudder before realizing that I'm not being shot at again, but that the blade has struck something metal.
Goddamn, getting shot really fucking hurts.
A few more shovelfuls and I've got it, whatever it is.
"Is this what you're lo --"
PING! SLUMP! PING! SLUMP!
"I'll take that."
His gun pointed directly at my racing heart, Lee Van Cleef takes the box, confirms its contents, and walks off into the sunset.
Told you he was the coolest.
Cheapskate, too. Couldn't have spared one gold coin? Bastard.