Randy, on the other hand, was much taller and thinner than Bert. He wore a Ten-Gallon Beard that made his head seem twice as long as it actually was, but he wore an extra-wide sombrero to cancel it out.
Bert and Randy were not familiar with one another. Bert lived his life quite comfortably in Zombie Alley, Arizona amongst a plethora of young women with tickling tricky fingers. Randy wandered about the deserts and plains.
Until one day Randy sauntered into Bert’s town.
Bert was unhappy with the added competition of Randy’s Ten-Gallon Beard. He was in the saloon with all of the other cowboys, enjoying a whiskey and the long fingernails of Sandy, the young saloon gal. When Randy entered he immediately locked eyes in a long cowboy stare with Bert.
“Uh huh,” Bert said in an effortless droll.
“Yyyyyyup,” Randy sighed, squinting.
“Mmm Hmm!” Sandy squealed. Without warning she crossed the saloon and caressed Randy’s chin sweater. Bert stood up, knocking his chair to the floor. He stamped to Randy and, perching on his tip-toes in his cowboy boots, stood nose to nose, eyes to eyes, with his foe. The ends of their whiskers danced around one another, electricity arcing betwixt the manly pubes. The piano player stopped playing.
“You boys wanna take this outside?” asked the bartender.
“Uh huh.” said Bert
“Yyyyyyup.” said Randy.
Sandy screamed and fainted.
Just then the bell of the church began ringing somethin’ fierce! The two cowboys marched into the streets, loading their rifles. Children and women rushed inside, frightened for their lives. The men did also. Only the local barber, remained. He cried a single tear for he knew that today one masterpiece of facial proportions would lie mussed in the streets.
“Please,” he begged, “don’t do this! You both have such beautiful face manes. Are you really going to fight each other because that saloon gal can’t control her wandering lustful fingers?”
“Uh huh,” Bert growled.
“Yyyyyyup!” Randy drawled.
The bell of the church clanged again and the pastor ran out into the streets.
“We got Zombies comin’!” he shouted, sending the barber back inside, still crying.
A cloud of dust billowing on the horizon was making its way toward the town. The steely cowboy gaze that Bert and Randy shared in the empty streets said everything. Their feud would have to wait. Randy shouldered his rifle and stood side by side with Bert at the gates of the town. The cloud of dust grew closer, revealing its evil, rotting, clean-shaven hoard. Just then the priest, a goatee wearing, waif of a man clamored to their side and, panting, repeated, “Zombies comin’!”
“Uh huh,” Bert muttered.
“Yyyyyyup,” Randy agreed.
Mustache. Beard. High Noon.