"GET YOUR FAT ASS OFF THIS BAR OR I WILL KICK IT OUT THE DOOR SO HARD YOUR GRANDKIDS WILL FEEL IT!"<br/><br/>The aforementioned "fat ass" (who was really anything but), used an index finger to lift the hat off his eyes and glance out from beneath it at the loudmouth with an attitude.<br/><br/>"I'm takin' a nap. It's rude to wake a man when he's takin' a nap. 'sides, I was here first. Buzz off. Bzzzzzz...."<br/><br/>Then the hat returned to its resting position and the hand made a shooing motion before moving back to his chest, where its fingers interlaced with those from the opposing hand and the man settled back down to sleep. Ordinarily, the loudmouth would have no problem with any man taking a nap, but on this particular occasion the napping man in question was lying right smack dab in the middle of the bar (the serving counter, not the type of establishment), and loudmouth really wanted a drink.<br/><br/>"Fine then, Fatass." (Innit funny how nicknames get started sometimes?) "Have it your way."<br/><br/>Not willing to take any more of the crap this scrawny gunslinger wannabe was dishing out, Loudmouth elected to take matters into his own hands. Or perhaps more accurately, his own feet.<br/><br/>WHUMP!<br/><br/>Loudmouth's foot slammed hard into Fatass' right hip, sending him careening off the counter with a foul-mouthed exclamation of surprise that cannot be uttered here (like, literally. Not all alien languages are structured around the english alphabet).<br/><br/>As it turns out, there actually wasn't a "wannabe" anywhere to be found in that "gunslinger" equation. Fatass had the pistol out and firing before he hit the floor, and the only thing that saved Loudmouth from getting a brainful of led was the serving counter (hairsbreadth-of-a-split-second reactions generally don't allow a lot of time for environmental analysis, believe it or not). Half a second after that, Fatass (who, it bears being said again, is actually probably one of the scrawniest guys you'll ever meet in this line of work) was scrambling to his feet for a second shot at the loudmouth who disturbed his oh-so-blissful slumber. Unfortunately, he'd be denied that chance too.<br/><br/>The barkeep, not being a man to stand idly by as his cantina got shot all to hell, was ready and waiting with his trusty scatterblaster before Loudmouth even made his move, and by the time Fatass got to his feet the weapon was very definitely NOT aimed someplace else. Also unfortunately, the gunslinger (I'm getting tired of calling him fatass, alright?) caught the movement out of the corner of his eye and a second slugthrower, this one clearly of a larger caliber than the first, was trained on the man in the space of a blink (which makes it fortunate that the barkeep had taken that moment to do just that, otherwise this story might have been over before it ever truly began...). The gunslinger's eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly as a hint of hesitation flickered through them then was gone.<br/><br/>"Put it down and go serve your drinks, barkeep. This slug's meant for somethin' a whole lot nastier'n you."<br/><br/>The barkeep gave the gunslinger a tight, strained smile.<br/><br/>"I have another idea. How about you put yours away and take whatever this is outside, before I put half a dozen new holes in you?"<br/><br/>"Mister..." The gunslinger let out a half chuckle. "You seen how fast I am. D'you honestly think you can pull that trigger without your head? Cuz that's what you're gon' have t'do. These ain't ordinary slugs in this gun, and it ain't no ordinary human holdin' it."<br/><br/>The barkeep glanced down at the admittedly imposing barrel of the pistol, then back up at the gunslinger's face, which was turned toward him just enough to keep both the barkeep and Loudmouth (who had decided for some incoherent reason that it would be smart to start moving a hand toward his own gun) in view.<br/><br/>"So what'll it be, barkeep?"