The swing doors parted and a man stood in silhouette. He waited. The music continued playing and not a single person payed him any mind. Except the bartender. Ol’ Pete knew exactly what was about to happen.

This was another one of those guys.

Pete watched him slowly march up to the bar, making a point to rattle his spurs with each step. Pete could tell the stranger was trying not to look around to see who was watching; he wasn’t winning the fight. Pete wanted this to be over soon.

Pete had already reached for the bottle, so the stranger could only get out “Sars-” before the bottle was plunked down in front of him.

“Look,” Pete sighed “we get your type occasionally. Nobody Cares. We don’t have an evil sheriff or bandits attacking. You can finish your drink and then move along to the next town.”

“What makes you think I’m here to solve your problems?”

“That’s just it, we ain’t got any problems, and folks like you are what bring the problems in. You’ll just have to go be a Big Damn Hero somewhere else.”