Minutes later Mark Sterling, gunfighter, stepped out into the cool night air.

The light from Granny’s Cafe spilled into the street giving out a pleasent glow. Inside, the place was bustling with activity. It always amazed Mark that so many people ate this late at night. It was nearly 8:00 o’clock.

Mark’s favorite booth, back near the kitchen, was empty and he made his way to it, greeting friends and aquaintances as he went. He tousled the hair of a youngster who called him Sheriff Scotty.

Like the gunfighters of old, Mark slid into the booth with his back to the wall. He adjusted his guns, feeling the missing piece of ivory on the handle. This roused his anger once more.

Tracy, the forty something waitress, that dressed like a 60’s teenager, set a cup of steaming coffee in front of him. “What’s it gonna be tonight, honey?” She made poping sounds with her gum.

“Liver and onions,” he said, refusing the menu. “Cookie still here?”

“I believe he’s back in his office, you want him?”