A lonely tumbleweed blows down 4th Avenue in a little frontier town known as Anchorage. The sun is cold, and yeller, and low in the sky. A pair of bat-wing doors swings open. A man in a white hat. It’s the Marshall. He’s cool and he’s tough, and he don’t take no guff from nobody. The black hat waits outside, and in the street a crowd gathers. They know what’s coming, and it ain’t gonna be pretty. The Marshall has his prey in sight, and this town ain’t big enough for the both of them. His eyes squint as he approaches the varmit. There is no sound but the clink clink clink of spurs. Their eyes lock, as the crowd presses in. There’s fixin’ to be a fight.
Marshall (Representative) Les Gara doesn’t like how varmit (Palin mouthpiece) Meg Stapleton has been talking about some of the respected townsfolk, like (former Commissioner of Public Safety) Walt Monegan, (Rep.) Hollis French, (Independent Investigator) Steve Branchflower, and (Rep.) Bill Weilechowski. No, he doesn’t like it at all. *squint*
The dust blows…. He confronts Stapleton head on. He wants one thing, and one thing only. *spits tobacco* An apology…
Intermission. Get popcorn.
Stapleton, you no account sidewinder…you’ve crossed the good people of this town for the last time. You got ’til sundown to get out.