The Gunslinger Carrot

        Long years of travel brought him to this dry, dusty town. Not many carrots saw this many years of life since the civil wars tore through the nations, wiping out most of the orange races, which were to few to begin with. 
        His spurs chinked rhythmically like sharpened bells jutting from his worn boots, giving small warning to whoever might be within earshot that a gunslinger approached. 
       His mother, after the murder of his father, had fled with her newly born root swaddled lovingly in a shawl of hemp, trying to shush the piercing cries of her son.
       This thought flashed through the gunslinger's mind as he walked down the middle of the dusty road leading through the small western town. After the first few houses, the law office and a post office, all abandoned, the scarred carrot saw that which his thirsty eyes had been searching. He followed the jaunty honky-tonk tune emitted from what sounded like a piano to the still saloon double doors that perched at the entrance to all such establishments.
       He did not hesitate, pushing through one of the doors, leaving it swinging wildly behind him as he walked up to the bar, occupied by an older green pepper in a white stained apron, who was wiping down a filthy beer mug with an even dirtier rag.
      After the shocked look faded somewhat from the peppers face, he set the mug on the bar and asked, "What'll it be stranger?"
     "Whiskey" The carrot rasped, his lips hardly moving, he flipped a silver in the peppers direction. The pepper defying all sense of the laziness he portrayed, snatched the silver from the air, bit it, and slipped it into his pants in the time it took to blink. He walked over to the selection, grabbed a caramel colored bottle and set it in front of the carrot, returned to his grimy glass and resumed wiping it.
      The carrot removed the cork from the bottle with a practiced pull of his teeth, and drank a swig to was the dust from his throat before helping himself to another drink.
     "We'll lookit here boys!" a drunk potato stumbled up from a table that was surrounded by stud playing spuds, "We got us a orangy!" He spit vehemently.
      "And lookat dem fancy pistolas  he's got dere" another spud added laughing, "You gonna shoot us carrot?
      "Not if you sit down" came a gruff reply from the carrot, still standing at the bar sipping on his wiskey.
     "OH, Oh did ya hear 'im Mike, did ya?" a younger potato stammered, practically falling over himself.
     "Shut up kid" Mike said shoving the kid back, "You gonna shoot us all mister?" Mike said turning back to the carrot, nonchalantly standing at the bar with his dark bottle. "Even if you know how to use them there pistolas, there's better dan eight of us." Mike stated, eyes glowering. "Take us all orangy?"
     The potatoes all rose from their chairs and stools, grabbing there weapons, always close at hand in these troubled times. Mostly clubs, some with rusty nails beaten through the ends. 
    It almost seemed as if a sigh could have been heard slipping from the carrots thin-lipped mouth as he turned around.
   The potatoes were edging forward, clubs raised in violent poses of hatred, card game long forgotten.
   The gunslinger didn't have to think anymore about what he had to do anymore. He just did. Hands a blur as they raised their respected guns from their holsters, fingers not hesitating to squeeze. These days hesitation meant death. Sound slammed through the air, white starchy meat slung through the air, landing on the poker table, the pianola playing it's honky-tonk. The smoke drifted through the room, seemingly sucked through the spaces in the double doors of the saloon. After quickly reloading, the carrot slowly turned around and picked up his bottle.
   "Rooms?" he asked.
  "Up..p...stairs" The pepper stammered, a shocked expression slammed back onto his wide green face.
   "For your troubles" The carrot said, as he flipped another silver in the barkeeps direction. Again caught, bitten, and hidden in a second.
  "Thank you, senor" the pepper said, awe written clearly on his face,  "Thank you"
   A grunt was all there was in a way of reply. He stalked up the stairs, his spurs marking the arrival of a gunslinger.
   "Just another day" He mumbled to himself, "Just another day"