Spaghetti Western

A bright, clear October day dawned. Tombstone began to stir. Soon, hoofbeats and the jangle of tackle could be plainly heard in the dusty streets surrounding Fly’s Boarding House.

The Nameless Man arose late. He’d missed breakfast, which he knew would have been terrible and too expensive to boot. Mrs. Fly rarely spoke to him any more: he made sure that she knew his opinions.

He descended the stairs, cursing to himself, and stepped into the light. He headed for Allen Street to find a place that would tolerate him long enough to serve him some grub. Everyone he passed on the street irritated him, and he let them know it: silly, foolish, ridiculous, stupid… No one looked him in the eye. Those who didn’t cross the street to avoid him at least quickened their steps and averted their gaze. Riders on horseback, too. He cussed all of them out. Loudly.

He couldn’t think of anything about Tombstone that he liked, yet he wasn’t inclined to leave it. He gave no thought to Boot Hill on the outskirts of town.

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