It's always on the days when you finally think you'll catch a break when something suddenly goes terribly wrong.

You don't usually get outlaws in your saloon, and on the rare occasions you do, they at least refrain from starting fights. This statement cannot, in good and truthful conscience, be applied to the outlaw currently in your establishment, drawing his gun to duel a patron right in the middle of the damn place.

You press the barrel of your gun to the back of the man's head, telling him to put his revolver away. As the metal presses against his skull, he raises his hands in surrender, one slowly moving to holster his gun.

"Alright, alright. No need to shoot," the man says, turning to face you. Immediately, he freezes and his eyes widen ever so slightly as a look of recognition crosses his face. It's the same look gracing your own as you realize your gun is against the head of Arthur Morgan, your ex and outlaw extraordinaire.

Arthur's mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to figure out what to say. Eventually, he settles on an awkward jumble of words, only semi-coherently sputtering, "Well, fancy seein' you here."