“We’ve had enough of your cowboy attitude in the workplace,” the boss said. “You’re fired.”
I glanced at the clock. High noon.
“That’s mighty fine,” I drawled, spitting my tobacco onto the floor.
Holstering my six-shooter, I darn grabbed my Stetson and moseyed on out, heading for the nearest saloon.
Jon is from the Northwest of England and wastes most of his time working in local government, when he really wants to just read and write. He thinks his attitude to his hobby of rustling cattle back at the ranch is more lasso-faire than cowboy. He has recently been told one of his slightly longer worded shorts is to be included in an anthology. A doggone first.
“What happened to you, Hank? You’re soaking wet.”
“I got caught in a flash flood.”
“In the middle of a dry spell on a sunny day?”
“Yep. I was in Wilson’s furniture store when a cowboy came in shopping for a waterbed. He plum forgot to take off his spurs.”
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, Betty Fedora, Stupefying Stories Showcase, and elsewhere.
Tex, a cowboy set in his ways, died hard. He emptied both six-shooters into a vampire before losing the fight.
Old habits die hard, too: in life, Tex had been accustomed to drinking Long Necks. No surprise, after being turned he preferred getting his daily fix of blood from giraffes.
John H. Dromey has had short fiction published in Gumshoe Review, Plan B Magazine, Plasma Frequency Magazine, and elsewhere.
The cowboy drank until he’d had enough, then topped off his flask for later.
When he turned to go, a couple mean-looking gents had gathered.
“Had enough?” said one.
“Got my fill.”
“Well at this lemonade stand most folks pay before they drink. Now give the little girl her quarter.”
This story was based on the prompt “had my fill” at TypeTrigger.
“I’m just a lonely cowpoke,” Billy admitted. “I ain’t no gun-totin’ hero, really.”
“Aw, shucks,” Milly muttered. “I was countin’ on you to save my ranch from Bad Bart!”
“I’m awful sorry, Milly.”
“Don’t be, darlin’. Truth is, I’ve been lyin’, too.”
“Y’see, pardner, I actually am Bad Bart!”
He was a subculture within a subculture. Cowboys called him “bisonboy,” which wasn’t technically accurate, but it had a better ring to it than “buffaloboy.” He listened to country southern music and wore a 9-gallon hat.
But when he was sad, his tears made mud puddles, just like everybody else’s.
This story was based on a title suggested by @metcarfre.
The day Tom was born, his father wore a high hat.
As a two-year-old, Tom loved taking a ride on his mother’s knee.
When he was four, he watched his brother catch rabbits in a snare.
At six, a pony gave him a nasty kick.
Naturally, Tom became a cowboy.
I know, I know, explaining jokes isn’t funny, but… form your own conclusions.
He’d killed his first outlaw after drinking bourbon for breakfast; it had become part of his routine.
For similar reasons, he drank saké for supper and lemonade for lunch, though he didn’t much advertise the latter.
One time he swallowed mud at midnight, so he let the train robbers go.
This story is based on a title suggested by the ever profuse @MisterFiendZero.
“I reckon you best be moseyin’ off now, son,” drawled the drawling old cowboy.
“Well aren’t we Mr. McDrawlyPants?” snivelled the snivelling little sniveller.
“Ker-Bang!” shot the shooty six-shooter.
“You brought it on yerself,” grunted the grunting, grumpy cowboy.
“Ow, my chest cavity really huuuuurts…” whined the whiny, dying whiner.
I’m trying out a new way to write dialogue. I think it has promise!
The cowboy walked up to the toddler, who was sitting on the cowboy’s hat. “Howdy!” he said.
“Doody!” said the toddler.
“Baw haw haw!” said the cowboy. “I love Howdy Doody! Great minds think alike, pardner!”
“That’s right, you’ve–” The cowboy sniffed. “Aw, crap, little pardner. In my hat!?”