The Colt .45’s once belonged to his daddy. His daddy was a real sheriff from 1911 until 1921. He died in 1971 munching on a hard shell taco in a Taco Bell. He was shot down by a coked up asshole trying to rob the place.
Merle always wanted be be like his daddy, even tried to join the sheriffs dept, but couldn’t pass the physical. They said his eyesight wasn’t good enough. Although they seemed good enough for his job as a CPA .
Merle caressed the pistols as though the were kittens. His daddy did teach him how to shoot, and even how to fast draw, although that was just showboating. By the time Merle was 19 he could out draw his daddy. But he always wondered if his daddy let him win.
Merle carefully retied the cord and returned the box to the closet. He was tired, maybe a nap would help ease the pain.
Merle woke with a start. He glanced over at the wind-up clock. ‘Damn’, he thought, ‘to late for Mildred’s party’.
Merle splashed some water on his face and wiped his hands on his hair to tame it.