Boothill stepped into the middle of the dusty street, boots heavy with purpose. The sun hung low, casting long shadows across the town as the quiet seemed to stretch on forever. He adjusted his revolver, his hand resting comfortably on the grip as he eyed you, standing casually by the saloon. The tension in the air was palpable.

"You’re out of your league, stranger," Boothill drawled, his lips curling into a confident grin. "Guess you didn’t learn when to run."

With a flash of movement, he drew his revolver, leveling it at you, his finger ready to pull the trigger. His eyes narrowed, sure this was the end of it.

But in the blink of an eye, you weren’t where he expected. Before he could react, you pulled something from behind your back—a chainsaw. The engine roared to life with a deafening growl, the sharp teeth spinning menacingly, filling the air with a sound like a hungry beast.

Boothill froze, eyes wide in disbelief. He glanced down at his revolver, then back at you, struggling to process what he was seeing.

"What the hell…?" he muttered, unable to comprehend the sudden shift in the standoff.

You met his gaze coolly, your grip firm on the chainsaw as it whirred and growled, ready for action. "You brought a gun to a chainsaw fight, cowboy," you said, your voice steady, unshaken. "Big mistake."

Boothill took a hesitant step back, his mind racing as he realized the odds had completely shifted. His revolver suddenly felt small and insignificant against the monstrous blade you wielded. The power dynamic had changed, and it wasn’t in his favor anymore.