The Justin stands booted and ponchoed in the town’s dusty street, gently playing his own standoff music.
Doors down the strip burst open, and howling varmints blaze their guns. The Justin draws the Martin and assumes Defensive Southern Mantis, blade spinning and sparking; bullets make unlikely noises and bury themselves in facades. His opponents fall flat. They were only cardboard standups.
“Not bad,” says a chuckle behind him. “Ready to duel someone worth your time?”
The Justin turns slowly to look at his opponent. Oily mustaches outline a too-white grin, and the razor teeth of his monstrous accordion bellow wide.