“H-HOWDY, S-SHARK,” The bartender trembled, nearly dropping an empty pint.
The bustling saloon went quiet, and the swinging batwing doors creaked and cried. Bullseye Bill hid behind a corner. Lady Flemmings covered her face with her fan. Poker-Pal Al dropped his seven of SPADEs.
Black boots met them all at the entrance, accompanied with clenched fists and a soggy sheriff’s badge. Instead of a neck, there was a dorsal fin and bloody gills. And in place of his head were beady black eyes, an enormous snout, and teeth that could grind up any Winchester. Ripley didn’t like the way they looked at him. He was still sheriff, even after what had happened. He growled and bit at the air. He had no SHAME.
Looking around, he saw no sign of him. But he knew the man was here somewhere. Ripley had checked all his other LAIRS. Nobody did something like this to him and got away. Nobody.
He grabbed the bartender by the shirt and pulled him close. “WHERE IS HE?” He demanded.
“W-who are yah--Sheriff Ripley we’re simple folk here, don’t want aaany trouble--”
Impatient, Ripley chomped on the bar, and hurled a huge chunk of it at the piano, decimating it in a splintered dissonant twang. A distant glass shattered on the floor.
He spit out the last bit of wood. “WHERE’S BUCK?” He roared, giving the bartender a good SHAKE.
Then he heard a back door slowly shut, and shot his eyes up. There he is. Ripley dropped the bartender. Twirling his Derringer, he crept towards the back room with a toothy grimace.
“Yippee-ki-yay, Mother Flounder.”