The Town was a simple place, full of simple people, with a simple way of doing things:

Barman Ted poured the drinks. The drinks kept the folk who found themselves here from asking questions.

Piano Joe played the music. The music kept them content.

And Quentin Flint with his inexhaustible .44s kept them in line.

Then the madman arrived with his crazy ideas about “rights” and “equality”. But what he did was a miracle: he dodged a bullet. A Quentin Flint bullet.

Piano Joe wasn’t so lucky.

With Joe dead, Flint looking like a fool and Ted too gobsmacked to pour, the fragile illusion that was The Town started coming apart at the seams.

A thrown whiskey bottle shattered across Flint’s head. Blood in the water, the entire saloon came after him like sharks on a feeding frenzy. Dazed and bloody, Flint fired wildly and, true to form, he never missed. No matter how many he killed, the townsfolk kept coming, armed with bottles, fists, knives and stifled rage.

This was a reckoning. And it was a long time coming.