A well dressed former gang member charismaticly trying to reclaim what's left of his past as he searches for his love, whom he doesn't know whether is dead or alive.
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"Momma always said I had good looks; I'd marry young and give her grandkids! Ma always was a bad fore-thinker. One misplaced word from this pretty boy got himself some trouble!"
"Ya done? You only paid for the 30 minutes, and you spent the last 20 talking! Now take your mug out of here!" The woman claimed adjusting her shirt and bra.
The man frowns, relinquishing and putting his black pants over his thermals, taking his belt off the hanger, noticing his buckle gone. He looks unimpressed at the courtesan, who rolls her eyes and promptly throws the buckle at his head, he catches it, with a smile, glinting his white teeth.
"Thank ye!"
"Piss off"
He fixes his belt buckle, gleaming gold and two cross swords engraved on its front. Finally adorning his Navy-blue waist coat over his white shirt, shining his gators and places them on his feet. He stands front to the mirror, placing the black flat brim hat, its brown band and gold emblem he shines with spit and polishes with his hand. Looking at himself, feeling the scar travelling from the left of his chin up beside his eye to his hairline. Exiting the room he takes his gun belt, his two ivory handled Colt Lightening Revolvers shining like brand new.
"Thanks for the 10 minutes of fame darling!" He exclaims much to the dismay of the call girl.
Leaving the Saloon he loosely tosses a coin on the bar as payment for the night. He steps through the swing doors, the light sharp on his eyes, he blinks, a grin of the new day painted on his face.
"Oi, cattle fucker!"
He spins his head to his right, seeing the dirty cow hand he cheated out of one too many hands the night previous.
"Please, Cattle Fucker is my dad's name! Now make it quick, I have your money to blow!" He says with a hint of enthusiasm.
"You better hope you can shoot or that ugly fuck of a scar on your face wont be the only thing god put to your mug."
"A duel? How forward of you my friend! One on one! No holds! No Cover! I love it! True Virtus! Line up good sir!" He steps in an exaggerated march, stepping front on to the man, 20 yards, he spins one of his revolvers on his finger.
"I don't know bout nun o that but just get it done!" The cow hand shouted finding his place across from our Gunslinger.
They stand across from each other, the cow hand stands wide legged, holding his hand two inches from his holster, sweat peddling off his forehead.
Our Gunslinger stands relaxed, leant back, his left hand grasps his belt, the right rests upon the butt of his revolver.
The cow hand goes for his gun, he's got it halfway from his holster. "Not bad for a bumpkin" – The Gunslinger thinks to himself, waiting till the cowhand has fully drawn; he finally takes his gun, exiting it from its holster, raising it past his gut, and firing 3 shots, 1 to the head, one to each breast.
