Bullets poured out of Quentin Flint’s revolver as he mercilessly rained hell upon the intruder. Mugs and shot glasses shattered and people screamed. Nobody messes with the way things were for they were intrinsic to the nature of this place and Quentin Flint’s dominance must remain unfettered by the “rights granted from birth”. What’s birth anyways?

The smoke and dust finally cleared, revealing the unravaged silhouette of the wild-haired stranger. Quentin Flint had missed and as the entire town knew, Quentin Flint never missed. It appears as though the stranger had known of what was about to transpire and had protected himself against any sort of high-velocity projectiles. The stranger fled from the saloon and just as quickly as he arrived, he left.

Back in the saloon, the scene was quiet and in the corner, slouched over his piano, Joe bled all over the sheet music that he hadn’t read in eons. Quentin Flint, dropped his gun as the magnitude of what had just happened settled. Something essential had changed.