George Three-Legs walked solemnly down the dusty street.  He looked twice as a pissed off Mexican wearing a clown outfit and a huge sombrero marched by grumbling to himself.  Grunting with amusement, a smile never did grace his face.  He passed by a salesman and glared his meanest stink-eye at the man when he looked at him.<br/><br/>The Indian wore a top hat and tuxedo coat, mocassins, loincloth, and warpaint.  His skin was heavily scarred and tattooed in the manner of the Commanche, a fierce and proud tribe.  He didn't sport any guns, but there were no less then five knives and two tomahawks on his person.  He strode into what looked like the rowdiest saloon in town.  George was in the mood for a fight and if one didn't find him soon, he would go looking for one.<br/><br/>He stepped past the swinging doors and eyed the man wearing a shiny badge, a preacher, and a few other possible candidates for an ass whuppin.  After assesing the scene, he walked over to the bar and ordered, "Firewater." He reached into his coat pocket and flipped a coin onto the bar.