The main discussion at the Old Iron Saloon was about Hays, the hypocritical bastard. I knew Tilden should have won, but the corrupt bastards in our government are..well, corrupt. Hays, the arrogant bastard, decided to pull Equestria’s troops from the South. If he thinks he’ll serve another term under my watch, I’ll have to bury another pony in the ground in my backyard. I that that the end of Reconstruction would be the end of the modern world. As you might of guessed, I’m not voting for Hays in four years, but then again, I never vote.
My name is Silver Steel and I live in Fool’s Landing, one of the first settlements in western Equestria. And in this town, I am the only thing that stands between a full-blown massacre and the mildly peaceful.
How I go the be the only protection in this low life dump is a story that I’ll have to be drunk to tell you. All you need to know is that ever since I showed up here with my shotgun and flea-ridden mutt named Mutt, the ponies here have been a welcoming bunch. They have given me the unique title of “The Best Shot In The West”. I have thought long and hard about whether I deserve that title or not. After taking everything into consideration, I have decided that the title was 100% accurate (hey, I’m modest. Just not right this second). Very few ponies around here would disagree with me. I have heard all about so called “Sheriffs” and other law enforcement officers that roam the Eastern part of Equestria, but all Fool’s Landing has is me. Ponies tend to respect you if you are the only one out of 194 ponies that make sure justice is done. So far, the only payment that I have received for my service was free whiskey at the Saloon. For me, it was the perfect job.
Anyway, I was getting drunk at the Saloon, complaining about that arrogant, hypocritical bastard Hays when I heard the shots. As I have described, the town is very small, and in a town as small as ours, any sound is easily detectable. I grabbed my trusty shotgun and went to the center of town, which was pretty much just a big statue of an old dead pony in the 1600s. Right in front of the statue, I saw a horrible sight. William Hoofwood, the only priest in this hell hole, was dead. I quickly determined that the cause of death was the loss of his head. Inside of me was hatred for the pony who did this to a poor old fool like Hoofwood, and the other part of me was relieved because I wouldn’t have to listen to him preaching to me about the evils of alcohol.
He wasn’t the only victim. A near-hairless pony named Harry who sold “liquor corn” for a living was also slowly dying due to a gunshot in his forehoof. Since the nearest doctor was 15 miles away, the crowd and I knew he was screwed. Harry was showing explicit signs of dementia and was obviously in horrible agony, which I figured he had the right. Oh well, we both knew he wasn’t going to be spitting out blood much longer. I went to cross-examine him about what happened, but he was being a jackass, swearing and making his face blush. I asked the only question that mattered now.
“Who had done shot you like this, little colt?”
He said only one word that I could make out. Robert.
I should have know that he was responsible for this tragedy. Mr. Tenderhoof Robert was a full fledged psycho. I heard that his original name was Robert Tenderhoof, but his name was switched on some official document and he decided to keep it that way. I would have sent him to his predestined destination of Hell if it weren’t for his son. Howard’s mother died during childbirth and he was only 6 years old. Most ponies here could relate to that and begged me not to kill Robert after I caught him running off with my mutt, Mutt. I decided to spare his life, but he couldn’t walk for 6 months after the incident. Now, he crossed the line.
I trotted over to his pathetic little shack near the end of town. I informed the crowd, who was insistent that they come with me to teach Robert a lesson, that this was going to get ugly. I gave a warning shot and ordered him to come outside. After no response, I kicked down his door and went straight to his bedroom. Robert was sleeping, surrounded by baskets full of whiskey, all empty. He must of killed hairless Harry for the alcohol and also killed the priest, who was probably causing Robert distress by being too nice.
I kicked him off the bed and shot off his dick to wake him up. He was still screaming when I tied him up and carried him outside. I haven’t seen Howard anywhere in the shack. I figured that Howard just might not want to hear that his dad was killed, so I dragged him all the way to Spooksville, the nearest town with a train station. Instead of the usual shotgun to the head, I decided to do it a more modern way. I put Robert on the railroad tracks, gave five bits to the train conductor, and stepped aside to watch the magic.
I wanted him to know that he was going to die and I also wanted to spare myself the task of dragging his body parts into town for a burial. He screamed and begged to be let go until the train crushed his brains all over the rails and I was finally able to get some peace and quiet. When I trotted back to Fool’s Landing, I told everypony that I set Robert loose in the woods and told him to never come back.
I figured that a lie would give some Howard some peace and closure. I was full of pride, knowing that I once again kept my town safe. I went to the bar and got a whiskey for me and a beer for Mutt. We drank to our success. Another day I survived the Old West.
Author's Note
This story was entirely made up and I apologize to those of you who when offended when I called Hayes a bastard. Just so you all know, he was.