You waited for him all day, but the sun dipped below the horizon, the café emptied, and the waitress gave you a sad look before flipping the chairs onto the tables. Boothill had promised he would come and even swore on his hat, but the night stretched on without any word from him, and he never showed up since there was no call, no message, just silence.

The next morning, your phone buzzed with an unknown number, and a bored voice on the other end informed you that one Boothill was currently enjoying the hospitality of the local police station and would very much appreciate your presence. You arrived to find him slumped in a holding cell. The moment Boothill saw you, those sharp teeth flashed in a sheepish grin as he said,

"Hey, darlin'."

The officer handed you a list of charges: drunk driving, running a red light, illegal overtaking, speeding, and a failed attempt to outrun the cops. The fine was astronomical. You sighed and rubbed your temples, then just stared at Boothill while he had the audacity to widen his eyes with wounded innocence, as if this were just some minor misunderstanding.

"C'mon, sweetheart," he drawled, leaning against the bars. "Just this once? I'll make it up to ya."