The golden sun that burns the desert valley of Rattlesnake county died slowly behind it’s hills.
It’s deep yellow light drawin’ back from a days work to let the shadows take over for now.
A tumble weed brushs past the feet of Sheriff Bowman as he steps up onto the creaky wooden steps of his private shack. He barely manages to hold his bottle of bourbon, stumblin’ through the door and into his old rickety chair that winced under his wait.
He put the bottle down for the first time that day and pulls his revolver out from it’s holster. Cracked open the chamber and stared woefully at the six bullets inside.
Few years back his son ran away, joined a posse of sons o’ bitches and got himself shot robbin’ a train. For that he removes one bullet from the chamber.
Bucky, his faithful cattle dog, got bit by a wild raccon. Went crazy until he was fixed at point blank range. He removes another bullet.
House caught on fire, followed by his mistress leaving for another man. Two bullets for that one.
And lastly, the goddamn quacks tellin’ ‘im that them cigerettes he been smoking since he was a lad are the reason he’d been coughing up blood each mornin’. Yet another bullet.
With only one bullet left, he whips the gun up, spins the chamber and cocks the hammer.
Shoves the barrel in his mouth and pulls the trigger.
Click…….Fuck me! Looks like it’s one more day in hell, better luck tomorrow night.