Western Fried Spaghetti

The Mysterious Man pulled down the brim of his Stetson and squinted back along the mesa, into the late afternoon sun.  It had been a long day—too long, like a tie that goes down way past your belt buckle, and your wife wonders aloud just how stupid the other parents at the concert will think you are, and then you yell at each other until your daughter starts crying.

Mad Dog and his gang sauntered down the mesa behind him.  They all wore holsters under their dusters, and they all carried six-shooters.  One of them spat over the edge of the mesa.

Mad Dog.  If ever a man was born already deserving to die, it was him.

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