The Gunslinger had his shoulders relaxed back into the seat and his head against the head rest. Hot and sweaty as before-mentioned, he felt his eyelids sink as they hovered dangerously at the horizon of his dark eyes. Apyrl’s voice sounded almost louder than it normally was when she dropped her canteen through the back window. Zieg’s brows furrowed deeply as he watched it plop onto the seat and stare at him with its gaping mouth as though he had some sort of obligation to do as she asked.<br/><br/>“I ain’t your water boy,” he grumbled. He then brought his eyes back to the road to see in the distance a strange formation that had numerous vultures congregating around it. Squinting his eyes through a rolling sheet of salt and sweat, The Gunslinger muttered, “What the?”<br/><br/><strong>Can I have some water please? And are we soon there yet?</strong><br/><br/>That had interrupted the Gunslinger’s thoughts as he whirled around to bark through the window, “I don’t have to get you shit, ya money-grubbin’ cuss! You worship Marilyn, thinkin’ she better than me. I taught that bitch how ta’ shoot, and if ya didn’t have shit for brains, you’dah known that I am<em>The</em>Best in the West. I ain’t gotta prove shit to you or that religious skirt back there with ya. You both can fry for all I care!”<br/><br/>Zieg turned back around grumbling and glanced down to the canteen as he then contradicted his protests by reaching down to feel around the floor for the water bottles. As he did so, a string of curses and loathing left his lips as his fingers felt the hot glass of a whiskey bottle, and then the plastic of a water bottle. Once he had it between his fingers, he pulled it up and peered down into the bag to notice his calendar was in there, and one of the days had been circled in red ink. The day wasn’t circled to mark the commencement of menstruation, but when it had been officially three weeks since he’s last had sex.<br/><br/>The Gunslinger grinned lecherously as he thought of Joanne. He had made sure to keep up with his calendar, and he’d have to circle the next day in the cycle some time. Glancing back to the road, just before the truck was an immense hunk of what the fuck? Zieg’s eyes widened in shock and his face paled upon realizing they had crossed the desert faster than he thought they would. He had forgotten the damn thing was even there!<br/><br/>“Shit!” the gunslinger cried. He jerked the wheel to the right, but was unable to swerve past the girth of the machine. The left side of the truck smashed into the statue and sent the vehicle leaping and spinning. Zieg’s teeth were clinched in panic as he braced himself against the truck’s speedy rotation until it finally jerked to a halt, leaving behind spirals of cloud. The truck didn’t suffer too much damage. The left headlight was smashed and the corner of the truck was smashed in like a can.<br/><br/>Thankful to be alive and slightly embarrassed, The Gunslinger sighed in relief and remained within his seat for a moment to allow his throbbing heart to settle.<em>Jesus Christ</em>he thought, and then popped open the door to reluctantly step out into the oven heat to inspect the front of the truck, and also curious to see what in the world he had hit. The sun was bearing down in its unforgiving glare and Zieg reached up to tilt his hat in the direction of the sun’s beams to give shade to his face. The truck hadn’t suffered too much damage. The left side was dented in as though it had gotten punched by an iron fist. The left headlight was busted, and the wheels seemed to be all right. After an ignorant glance at the damage with no real experience in mechanics, Zieg then turned to face the hulking object that was obscured by the dust screen. Hopefully a statue was all it was.<br/><br/><hr/><br/><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;"><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: impact;">Last Chance</span></span><br/><br/>Last Chance hadn’t been as lively as Dead Horse. There weren’t any guest appearances of a gunslinger or Best in the West, in fact, the late hours had drawn in a light crowd. In the back, the captain was sitting with his arms crossed upon the table surrounded by some cat agents that were donning grey, military coats that went down to the floor. The cats all wore hats tall and Russian in appearance to obscure their pointy ears and to avert any unwanted attention that may have looked their way. Amongst the four figures about the table was a young woman clad in the tight, black leather of a motorcycle suit. She was very thin with no hips and small breasts. Her face was tan like all the other desert walkers, her lips darkened with auburn lip stick and a small mole lingered just above the right corner of her lip. Her smooth, black hair was bound up into a high pony tail with spiraling ringlets cascading down the back of her head to stop just above the nape of her neck. Despite her body that most of the saloon rats had deemed unappetizing, the mysterious woman’s face was quite mysterious and alluring.