Another Shootout at The Blundering Bard

Adam Buesching

Another Shootout at The Blundering Bard

It's a crap-shoot kinda thing to frequent

The Blundering Bard: Ain't enough

for a dude from far yonder to wet

his flannel-mouth in the local brew

and do his damnedest to talk-plain

to cover his tracks leading from

outta town, but to manage catch'n

his mark without kick'n up rows.

In these parts, it's said that there is no

worse critic than one's own self.

Like so many times before, in bergs

beyond number, I had the Wanted

snug in my crosshairs only to let'm

get-gone 'cause I hung fire, or to

bilk-out myself to save my own pride.

Can yellow bellies be turned to stone?

Saner men condemn my methods -

I may be a straight shooter, but my

aim don't quite hit center'a mass.

I may be green - between hay and grass -

but that ain't enough to still my spurs.

You're the gem of The Blundering Bard,

brighter than silver in the water.

And you're too sly to come along quietly.

Once more, the doors croak open

as I find my perch 'cross from yours.

The lil' water'n hole begins to fill

with all the regulars I'd seen since I first

rolled in all those days ago. Finally, you

mosey in, you take a load off, and put

your feet up. Lax as you look, one wrong

move'll plant me in the bone orchard.

It's a quaint little place, The Bard:

Ace-high spirits served with the word

of the day (things spoken in tongues).

A nice little respite before the nearing

storm. I'm no bushwhacker, I wait for

the hat to drop, for whatever signal we

never discussed. No sense in ask'n

who drew first.

Twin dragoons and sister cloverleaf colts

spit squalls of leaden hail at their rival's

eyes 'cross the manic saloon in flashes

of brown-green as all the regulars

do as they've always done-

pay it no heed.

It's Simon pure to any who see the

sparks that this mess needs wind'n up.

Our deathly dialogue, our sheepish

exchange, is a spectacle of brilliant

absurdity. Hammers drum'n off boorish

anthems of a victory long come'n, as not

even a single, stink'n, half-hearted

hallow-point flies true to make a

contention. It's the same as always.

No fuss, no muss.

We duck, we dodge, we spin and we flip,

on the run from...We don't know what.

Our chambers are endless, our barrels

hold hot, but this battle is tar pit;

run'n slow as molasses in a wild world

where every shot could be your last.

Eventually, the barkeep finally says it,

"Last call!"

I must be a sight; a headhunter

who don't ever walk away with a

warrant fulfilled or as buzzard shit. A revenant

that jus' wants to repay in kind the

gushing, silver-dollar sized hole you left

'tween some of my ribs on day one.

To know that I'm even capable of

matching such artful marksmanship.

It was jus' another shootout at

The Blundering Bard, but not the last.

West into the blaze'n horizon, east into

dotted, high-hung heroes, we take leave.

I came to cut a swell, not copper my

wager. No more bet'n on red.

So I declare to you,

we'll have our high-noon duet yet.