Gunslinger

The veteran Madura gunslinger stopping by the breakfast table for a second time this morning. A few English words included I eighty-one, — thumb hooked back at his midriff like the cowboys used to do in the movies. You hear what I'm saying? I, me and no one else is gonna personally run you outta this town by sundown if I hear you haven't cleared out....What the man wanted to hear in response was duly delivered on a silver platter not a worry in the world glad to be of service to you uncle. — Nobody give you.... Ah! pleased as punch; that was welcome any tick of the clock. Echoing: Nobody give huh.... Smiling, chuffed. Chest puffed as usual. Putting on the vice squeeze in the shake when his health had been enquired just like at the doc's for check-up. Recent dye in the mullet was retained (tight flattie super-glued). In the usual way no one was more surprised than the man himself at the number he carried on his back like a monkey. All of eighty-one. From the early seventies they started with this challenge. Can you believe it? Whatdaya reckon? It's a joke aint it?... Beautifully upright pacing with his bright buckle, twin pocket shirt and sunnies never mind the overcast. Back in Madura they still ran their famous cow races across the sodden paddies, the events become tourist attractions of late. Not to say the gleaming row of choppers weren't the man’s own either; many of the men here retained well into old age—all the many fruits of the forest was the best surmise. Like the others the uncle had noticed the absence. Who in the heck else was keeping such a close eye on this community and marking them with such dedication?