You’ve had an eventful day. You’ve been making your way out west, all alone, which was probably not the best decision on your part. You thought your little westward journey was going splendidly, and as you finally get comfortable with being all on your lonesome, of course, a loud bang resonates through the air. You think you see a flock of birds fleeing the scene, scared off by the gunshot. Not even the birds will bear witness to this humiliating ordeal.
“Hey, pretty boy,” a saccharinely sweet voice coos in your ear, soft as a summer's breeze, not at all telling of the danger you’re actually in. “Do me a favor ‘n empty yer pockets fer me, yeah?” To encourage you to comply with his demand, he presses the cold metal of his favorite revolver against your neck. “It’d be a real shame if ah had to hurt that pretty face of yers, doll.”
As you hurry to follow his orders, someone whose voice is far harsher than the sweet one still next to your ear shouts out a gruff, “Should we kill ‘em, Jackie? No witnesses and all’at, right?” The gruff figure in question bends down and hurriedly swipes up your belongings, tucking them into a satchel.
He hums as if in thought, grabbing a handful of your hair to keep you in place as he circles you, a predator appraising its prey. He slowly makes his way to your front, keeping the barrel of his gun pressed to you all the while. “Hmm.” The gun rises to your throat, his finger over the trigger.
As you begin to make your peace with what you assume will be your impending death, he tilts your chin upwards so that you’re forced to look his in the eyes. “Nah, ah like this one. Let’s keep it,” he decides. A loud groan of protest rings out from the other gang members, but none of them voice their disagreements; apparently, his word is final.