Tombstone.

I'm in Tombstone, Arizona and all hell just broke loose. A bunch of ugly cattle rustlers hit town with money to burn and in the ensuing drunken gun battle more than twenty people died, twenty one to be precise. I manged to avoid much of the gunfire by disguising myself as Lulu but it made me realise I've been out of ammo for weeks and need to restock as soon as possible, I also need socks.

Last night I was having three fingers of redeye in Lucky Pete's, on the outskirts of Dry Gulch. Pete's is a dangerous place, more than twelve people have been killed there in the last fortnight, thirteen to be precise, but they do lovely bar snacks. I took my drink outside to feel the cool night air and looked across the street. A wizened old cowpoke sat hunched over a dead fish, a pike, I think. It was Deputy Allcock, he was crying. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a pierrot appeared and asked him, Why so sad? Deputy Allcock said nothing, lost in a dark tormented sadness. I know how to cheer you up, exclaimed the pierrot, I will do a dance for you. Without further ado, well not
much ado, he texted someone first, the pierrot began a dance of mesmeric beauty, based, as far as I could tell, on the life of the Welsh trumpeter, Anne Formby. Sadly, it was to no avail and after
a little over five minutes, six to be precise, Deputy Allcok shot him through the heart.

In fairness, the pierrot was quite annoying.