Now, the boots themselves are dull and unremarkable, but the golden spurs on the back of them
catch my eye as soon as I first see them.
What really piques my interest, though, is the revolver sitting in the holster above those
Boots.
Now, this item was truly a spectacle, something only for the finest connoisseur. A
lustrous gold, just like the spurs, but even shinier. It had engravings in it too, intricate patterns I’d
never seen anything like before.
It was a shame that the holster was a dull brown. I’d think such a weapon would be unhappy to have to sit in such a holster all the time, rarely ever seeing the light, especially since a fingerless glove rests on it, just as dull and brown as the holster.
It almost irritates me.
The boots stop next to a table, and I see two smooth white gloves on the other side.
Looks like they’re playing poker, I think to myself.
The fingerless glove places three bright red chips on the table, and other gloves around the table also start placing chips.
The saloon doors on the other side of the saloon swivel once again, and my eyes dart towards the movement. Another pair of boots, these ones a glossy black, walk inside. These boots have nothing of note, no shiny buckle or spur, so I initially give them little attention.
The white gloves deal out cards around the table, and the fingerless glove picks up its three cards: An ace of hearts, a king of hearts, and a jack of hearts. I then look at the flop: A five of clubs, a queen of hearts, and a ten of hearts.
A royal flush! I think to myself.
The black boots stop a few feet away from the poker table. I notice a pair of gloves, glossy black just like the boots, with one of them holding a glass of whiskey.
In the last round, all the gloves lay their cards on the poker table, including the fingerless glove, which then seizes all of the chips in the pot.
Suddenly, one of the black gloves swiftly draws a worn, brown, run-of-the-mill derringer, and before the golden revolver could even fully leave its own holster, a deafening bang emanated from the derringer, followed by smoke.
The golden revolver falls to the ground, along with the three cards. The black glove lets go of the derringer, slowly closes around the revolver, and holds it high. The other black glove places the empty whiskey glass on the poker table, and pulls from inside one of the boots a large piece of worn paper. It reads, “Arthur ‘Goldie’ Jones, Wanted Dead or Alive, $10,000”.
The black glove places the golden revolver into the dullest, most unremarkable holster I had ever seen, and I can’t bear to observe the scene through the saloon’s windows any longer. I fly away from the branch I was perched upon, knowing I will likely never see a gun, no, any object as stunning ever again.
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