At that I suppose my rage was a little misplaced. I turned to Jack Daniels, whorehouse owner and chief vigilante.
‘And Jack. How can you — turn the vigilantes on me!’ I was the one who organised the vigilante party in the first place, about two weeks ago when the sheriff went missing. I hear they found him, eventually, on the downside of a dry, pebbly cliff; ‘Must of taken a long walk,’ was the word in town.
But Jack didn’t say anything more; only a great number of the vigilantes seemed to appear in the saloon and rise up out of their chairs, chaps creaking. I could hear the clock in the back parlour ticking.
At that I simply turned on my heels and marched out; ‘Go on, shoot me in the back,’ I said. ‘It’ll only ping off the knife that’s already there.’
Next I marched back across the road to the council chambers and stormed into the Mayoral office calling for my sexy secretary Miss Summertime, who was supposed to be dusting the visitor’s parlour, but was in there giggling with the doors shut and the blinds drawn; I could smell cigars, and the Mayoral decanter was missing from my desk.
‘MISS SUMMERTIME!’ I yelled. Suddenly she came scurrying out, a little tipsy, and her hair undone, but no worse off than usual on any given Tuesday afternoon in Shitsville.
‘I need to dictate an important letter appertaining to civic matters,’ I said.
‘I’m a little busy now,’ said Miss Summertime looking regretfully towards the darkened parlour. ‘Can’t you get someone else to type it?’
‘How about I get someone else to be my sexy secretary?’
Someone inside the parlour coughed. ‘You could try typing it yourself?’ she suggested hopefully.
I was looking down at her from the landing, and I’m afraid at that moment I lost my cool and threw a boot at her.
Cont’d here: TXXXS.