Bumbadumbadumdumdum went the music as giant words appeared and disappeared over the mountains. Things slowed way down after that. A tall drink of water loped into the town, dust everywhere. Horse shit everywhere. The whole road was full of it, just disgusting. The man didn’t care.
He had no name.
Pronounceable in English.
People just called him “Jim.”
Jim had on a leather duster, black felt hat, and a big iron on his hip. It was for getting creases out of his business clothes. On his other hip was a revolver. He used this to plot planetary cycles through turn of a crank – it was strange to wear on the hip.
In a holster, beneath the revolver was his gun.
It was a blue steel affair, walnut stocks set with Lincoln pennies. Shooting things just made sense to him. Time was, that barrel had taken down more dudes than dysentery, cholera, or any number of disease brought forth by unclean water or improperly cooked food. To be honest, probably far less – still, he’d killed his share of men across the west.
Jim hated the whole business of killing – had only done in men when he’d had to. For all his trouble, he’d not made a dime on the whole business. That would have been unfair – he’d made a shitload of dimes. Turned most into dollars, to tell the Lord’s truth.
And there, in that town, he met his match.
Anthropomorphic matches are such hotheads. It was an easy shot to fire into the head of the match, setting the sulfur off. The match collapsed onto the boardwalk next to the saloon, the liquor bottles heating up and exploding in a fireball.
Jim watched the town burn around him.
He got on his horse and left the town behind him.
And this story.
It was too silly.