The Gunfighter A Short Film By Eric Kissack (Narrated By Nick Offerman)

The weary gunfighter walked slowly through the saloon. The long miles from Cheyenne had taken their toll. Who's saying that stuff? He scanned the room with a suspicious eye. Years of being on the wrong side of the law had taught him that a tough man can get out of a situation, but a smart man never gets himself into one. Please quit doing that. I just want to have a shot of whiskey in peace. But the gunfighter would find no peace, for the Henderson boys were waiting in the corner to kill him for the $200 bounty on his head. Is that true? You boys trying to kill me like this voice is saying? Uh, no. Lied the oldest Henderson boy. How do you know I'm lying? The oldest Henderson boy asked the heir. No, I didn't ask the heir. I'm asking you, you ******* voice. Said the oldest Henderson boy. Would you please stop saying said the oldest Henderson boy? Implored Tommy, the oldest Henderson boy. Meanwhile, the younger Henderson's hand twitched by the colt peacemaker on his right hip. He was thinking of shouting, look out behind you, to trick the gunfighter into turning around so he could shoot him in the back. No, I was not. Come on, Johnny. Again with the look behind you. What were you going to say was behind him this time? Uh, nothing. Johnny lied. He was going to say a bear. Oh, come on. A bear, Johnny? In a saloon? Johnny's face turned red. He began wishing he was in a safe place, at home, in bed, with his dolls. What? Hey, hey, I ain't got no dolls. To calm his nerves, he pictured himself combing his dolls' hair and pouring them each a cup of tea. No. Wait, wait, wait. You have tea parties with your dolls? But something about the younger Henderson's vulnerability opened a door in the gunfighter's heart. Nope. No, it didn't. Inside, a sea of confusing emotions bubbled to the surface. No. He started imagining himself holding the younger Henderson and stroking his greasy hair. No. He pictured his first kiss with the younger Henderson. No. They both giggle at how clumsy it was. They know the next one will be even better. I'm seriously not picturing that. But inside he was. No, I'm not. But he was. No, I'm not, and that's the final word. But he was. God damn it! Why don't you two go get a room? Hey, why should we trust this voice anyway? Just then, the gunfighter had an idea. Hey, you. Me? Think of a number between 1 and 100, and then we'll see if this voice really knows what we're thinking. Okay, got it. Sally the whore began thinking of her favorite number, which was 32. She then thought of her lady parts and how itchy they were before deciding to change her mind and go with 76, her second favorite number. The voice is right. 32 is my favorite number. But then I changed my mind and went with 76. Ain't your cooch? I've been itching something horrible since Saturday, Bill. You know anything about that? No. He did. But we'll get to that in a minute. Looks like that voice really does know everything. The gunfighter noticed for the first time that the bartender was black. This was still unusual in the West, but the gunfighter decided he was okay with it. Um, thanks? The people in the town prided themselves for their progressive attitudes about race. That's right. But would they still feel that way if they knew that Sam had been sleeping with Ned Schilling's wife? What? Relax, Ned. Everyone has been with her. Guilty. Yeah, you're right. And Elijah Jessop's sister. Well, Sam has died. Watch yourself, Jessop. You best put that gun down or I'll cut you in half. That music seems kind of ominous, don't it? Ominous? What's that mean? You know, like something bad's about to happen, like a needless gunfight. The stage was set for an awesome ballet of death. Blood would be spilled, but who would be the first to— Wait a second, ballet of death? What the hell? I think this voice wants us to kill each other. Meanwhile, the gunfighter saw his opening to shoot Tommy dead. No, no, no, wait. That one really is a lie, see? My hand's nowhere near my gun. Okay, you got me. That one wasn't true. But this one is. Yesterday, Tommy Henderson made sweet love to Bill Jessop's wife. You made sweet love to our mama? Here's the thing about that. Oh, you're dead, Henderson, said Gabriel, who had recently delivered a load of cream to the back porch of his brother's wife. He did her in the butt. What? How could you? Your own brother? Yet even as Bill reacted with disgust, the irony was not lost on him. You know what, I see where you're going with this, and I'm just going to retract my disgust right now if that's possible. For he had been regularly sneaking into Paul Valentine's barn. Okay, you know, we're good. We're good here. I think we should just move on. Where he'd been having sex with Paul's favorite sheep, Martha. Oh, boy. Martha, Bill? Martha? That is why I've been so itchy? You know what? We all just need to take a deep breath here. We're playing right into the voice's hands. Sure, there's been a surprising amount of infidelity in this town, and the bestiality should probably stop. And I might be gay, but if we start shooting, the voice wins. I think the voice has given us an opportunity. In a world where our deepest, darkest secrets are unveiled one by one, maybe we'll stop doing the things we're ashamed of and start to embrace the things about ourselves we're afraid to accept. Hell, this could be the beginning of a new utopia, a society based on fairness and tolerance where it don't matter if you're rich or poor or... Or a woman! Let's not get carried away, but the point is is that the voice is showing us the worst side of ourselves, and we need to show it our best. Now, who's with me? Yeah! It was a good speech, and things might have turned out differently if the crowd never found out that the gunfighter had just last night shot and killed the youngest son of John McCullers because he, quote, had some breath that smelled like the ass-end of a Chinaman. Well, you must be Mr. McCullers. It was a true ballet of death. When the gruesome bloodbath was over, not a single person was left standing. Except for Sally, the itchy whore. Phew! Who celebrated by scratching her front porch. Little did she know she would be mauled to death by a rabid wolf the very next day. Well, ****.