((Think modern day, just a bit more Wild West... ask him, he'll explain.))
Jorge Garalla had knocked off three banks in NYC, one in D.C., five in Chicago, and the Federal Territory Bank of Tombstone TWICE, then vanished into the ether five years before. When the FBI and the CIA had failed to find him (BIG surprise. Not!), the young mulatto thought himself safe. He had not counted on Colt "The Hound" Walker getting his case.
I can do the Impossible, Miracles take a few days. was the rawboned Tennessean's motto, and he stuck to it. Most thought Colt insane, but they never argued with his end results. The Hound had sniffed and hunted and scratched and fetched for Garalla's arse, now worth $500k to the bounty hunter who brought him in, and had tracked him down in San Jacinto just three weeks before.
Now, some Kelly Hu-wanna-be and a werewolf -of all damned things- had just run Garalla over with her "Mad Max the Road Warrior" International and was trying to order Colt around after bashing him through a wall, killing the best stud racehorse for nine states, and costing Colt five hundred large. Not happening; not today. From behind the transaction desk, Colt drew his rifle and put four three-round bursts into the beast's chest, tossing it onto its back. Then, removing himself from the lap of the prettiest young Navajo he'd ever had the pleasure of landing on, Colt aimed at the Matrix Woman.
"Well, as I highly doubt your Model 1887 can out-shoot my L85 here, and you just cost me $500 large by running over MY skip, my answer is not only 'No' but--"
At that moment, the "werewolf-thing" got up, growled and braced to pounce!
Colt leaped over the desk, drew his pistol and emptied the 14-round magazine into the thing's chest as he tackled "Kelly Hu" into the truck. Not even looking at his surroundings, I'll figure out when Garalla slipped me the peyote later!, he shouted, "DRIVE, DAMN YOU!!" at the driver and reloaded.
Jorge Garalla had knocked off three banks in NYC, one in D.C., five in Chicago, and the Federal Territory Bank of Tombstone TWICE, then vanished into the ether five years before. When the FBI and the CIA had failed to find him (BIG surprise. Not!), the young mulatto thought himself safe. He had not counted on Colt "The Hound" Walker getting his case.
I can do the Impossible, Miracles take a few days. was the rawboned Tennessean's motto, and he stuck to it. Most thought Colt insane, but they never argued with his end results. The Hound had sniffed and hunted and scratched and fetched for Garalla's arse, now worth $500k to the bounty hunter who brought him in, and had tracked him down in San Jacinto just three weeks before.
Now, some Kelly Hu-wanna-be and a werewolf -of all damned things- had just run Garalla over with her "Mad Max the Road Warrior" International and was trying to order Colt around after bashing him through a wall, killing the best stud racehorse for nine states, and costing Colt five hundred large. Not happening; not today. From behind the transaction desk, Colt drew his rifle and put four three-round bursts into the beast's chest, tossing it onto its back. Then, removing himself from the lap of the prettiest young Navajo he'd ever had the pleasure of landing on, Colt aimed at the Matrix Woman.
"Well, as I highly doubt your Model 1887 can out-shoot my L85 here, and you just cost me $500 large by running over MY skip, my answer is not only 'No' but--"
At that moment, the "werewolf-thing" got up, growled and braced to pounce!
Colt leaped over the desk, drew his pistol and emptied the 14-round magazine into the thing's chest as he tackled "Kelly Hu" into the truck. Not even looking at his surroundings, I'll figure out when Garalla slipped me the peyote later!, he shouted, "DRIVE, DAMN YOU!!" at the driver and reloaded.
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