The swirling cloud of parched earth rose up as the dust devil flitted down eerily empty Main street. There was not a soul to be seen on the vacant sidewalks, the entire town cowering behind walls, peeking out windows, holding their breath as the two gunfighters faced off under the blazing noonday sun.

They eyed each other. the one, a black clad, menacing hulk with a sinister sneer stretched across an unshaven face. the other, wearing a faded denim shirt, leather chaps, and scuffed cowboy boots with silver spurs, had a gleaming smile under an upturned white Stetson.

Both had pistols strapped to their hips. time was frozen in silence.

The moment was broken when White hat slowly raised both hands high in the air and spoke, 

“say Blackie, have you ever really thought about what we’re doing out here?”

Blackie grunted, he’d heard it all, this was just another fancy dude stalling for time before Blackie sent him off to Boot Hill.

Hands still upraised, White Hat continued, “I mean, really, what is a gunfight going to settle? You’re faster, I’m faster, one of us is dead. And, on the odd chance you happen to still be alive afterwards, what happens next?’

Blackie was getting itchy, a drop of sweat oozed down his nose. What was this fool getting on about, reach for your gun and get this over.

“What happens if you win the gunfight? Some other guy comes after you, wanting to show the world that he’s tougher, faster. Blackie, do you know what the average lifespan of a gunfighter is? 23 years old. Oh, you might last a few years more, most get planted a few years less. And all this drama for what? A little entertainment for all those folks hiding away, waiting for us to blow our guts out.

Now Blackie was getting irritated. It was time to put this guy down.

But White Hat kept going, “you and me, Blackie, we’re caught up in the American myth of constructive violence.. You and me and everyone else have been brainwashed into believing the hero story that the only way to settle conflict is with do or die aggression. the American hero is the guy who stands up to the bad guy with a gun and kills him.”

Constipated violence? This was too much for the small mind of a man who’d been tossed out of first grade for shooting six bullets over the teacher’s head trying to kill a spider.

“enough!” Blackie snarled, “talks over Whitey, draw.”

but White Hat, hands still high in the air, kept going, “you know these guns we’ve got are called  Peace Makers? Isn’t that a load of ironic bullshit?”

Now Blackie was really getting confused, why was this guy talking about ironing? Time to end this.

Blackie was reaching for his pistol, but White hat called out as his hands patted down in a calming motion, “just one last question, Blackie.”

the other gunfighter hesitated.

“Do you remember why we’re out here?”

Blackie’s mind faltered. A look of puzzlement came over his face, then concern.

Well no, he thought, just why the hell were they out here?

“Damn, it’s hot,” Blackie muttered as sweat streamed down his face.

White Hat ambled up to the confused gunfighter, put an arm over the other man’s slouched shoulder, and said, “c’mon, I’ll buy you a beer.”


Moral: Violence is not all it’s cracked up to be.


tio stib

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