Cody was a gunslinger

Cody was a gunslinger on a little known planet on the western edge of the spiral galaxy.

He was tired.

And he had a headache.

But nothing compared to the headache he would have later, when the chickens came home to roost. Except they weren’t really chickens. More like killer robots. Drunk killer robots. With lasers. And they weren’t coming home to roost either, unless you thought roost meant to rip off heads and laugh at the spurting jets of blood. Or maybe nuke a neighbourhood.


Damn, he thought, and not for the first time. Damn those slack-jawed white-coated scientist types, with their thick glasses and high pitched voices and packed lunches. Damn their meddling. Things had been a lot better in the old days. Sure, the odd robot had gone rogue. That’s why there were gunslingers in the first place, to keep the peace. Always had been.

But the booze had changed all that.

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