The walls of the canyon echoed with the blast of two shotgun barrels emptying themselves into something or another. Maybe it was a desperate fugitive. Maybe it was the sheriff. Maybe it was a snake or a wildcat. Maybe it was just a cross-eyed bush.
The vultures were curious, regardless.
“Gimme the jelly beans!”
“I’m sorry, what?” I turned around. There was a person with a shotgun standing on the other side of the counter looking menacing.
“Empty out the jelly bean vending machine! Now!”
“Ok, ok!” I slowly stepped around the counter and did it.
He ate them all.
This story was inspired by @Ponza on Twitter.
Grampa rolled his rocking chair back and forth, back and forth.
He rubbed the twin barrels of his shotgun with the polishing rag, up and down, up and down.
He spit a wad of chewing tobacco into a jar, stood, and said,
“Missy, don’t you never–ever–kiss no boys.”
Whirring, spinning, and hissing, Cyborg George advanced towards the unimpressed heifer, who stood at the fence chewing her cud.
“This ends NOW!” cried George, cocking the shotgun mounted on his arm. He raised his metallic arm high. “NOW!”
As if on cue, a bolt of lightning burst from the sky.
Twelve ravens settled on the field.
“Raaawk, twelve of us? Somethin’ big!” croaked Elwitch, the biggest raven.
“Death, death, raawk!” agreed Eegar, the oldest.
Esaud, the loudest, squawked, “Raawk, George, the farmer!”
George, left leg missing below the knee, hobbled past on crutches, with a shotgun slung across his back.