schplog

The dusty white bird silently strapped on a pair of bandoliers, and checked the action on his trusty sixguns. A rivulet of sweat ran slowly down his bill. The sun was high in the western sky, and it was almost as hot here in Tombstone as it had been back in Morocco, where this feud had begun so many years before. No matter. The showdown was finally about to begin, right out on Main Street.

But just as he burst out onto the wooden porch of his creaky hotel, the local lawman intercepted him.

“Well,” said the sheriff, squinting in the glare, “hold up there, pardner. We don’t allow waterfowl to carry guns in this here town, ’specially no-account, immoral furriners such as yourself. I guess you know what I’m a gonna do.”

And without another word he was locked up…

in the loose-goose-calaboose-couscous.