04-03-2010, 10:15 AM
Alexander had not been facing the two duelists when they exchanged final words, or when they had exchanged bullets for that matter, but he could feel the foreboding tension build in the moments prior. The echoing chorus of gunfire had faded into silence; all that could be heard was the deep, rhythmic beating of drums and the high-pitched twanging melody that signaled a showdown.
“You’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’” There was a slight pause, before the girl, whose name was indeed Victoria, continued, “Well, do ya, punk?”
“What in the hell . . .?” he whispered in confusion. Trafford cocked an eyebrow and whirled around on his heel, his mouth slightly ajar in confusion. “Dirty Harry, really?”
His dumbfounded cries were drowned out by the sound of gunfire; the two combatants quickly raised their respective weapons and fired. The cowboy recoiled as the bolt of electricity slammed against his torso and ripped open a fatal hole just above his abdomen. Alex’s eyes flashed from the collapsing body to his partner and, as he sighed in relief, noticed that she was standing unharmed.
An air of confidence surrounded the coral-haired warrior, who flashed Alex a smug grin as she tallied another fatality. He rolled his eyes and took one last inhalation on the ‘dead’ cigarette before removing it from his lips and casting it down into the coarse sand.
“Let’s head to the river,” Victoria recommended as she made her way across the momentarily silent street.
Alexander nodded absentmindedly; he was still wondering how despite all of the Clint Eastwood quotes that actually pertained to gunfights in the Wild West she had managed to choose one of the few that did not. On the other hand, as a major Clint Eastwood fan, he was impressed that she had recited the line so flawlessly. Eventually, as they started walking towards the river, he let the subject drift from his mind.
“So, uh, you seem to be pretty damned good with that thing,” Alex muttered, breaking the silence as he pointed towards Victoria’s still smoking fingertip. He’d seen warriors unleash devastating energy blasts before, but none who fired them with such precision and compact power. And her energy seemed different, in a way. His partner, the confident female fighter with rose colored hair, reminded him of Sage, except that instead of using ice she used electricity.
How cool was that? Alexander thought to himself. He wished that he could shoot electricity from his fingertips! It seemed that the further he ventured forth into this new world of super-powered enemies and allies he found men and women with equally new and unique abilities. In a strange way it actually made him feel . . . normal. He could not explain how in words, but in his mind he imagined a line graph that described how he felt: as the number of people with abilities increased, his perception of himself as a freak decreased. It was an inverse relationship that explained his complicated emotions; although he was still lonely, he was not alone.
“Not so fast you varmints!”
Victoria flashed her eyes at Trafford for a moment, and then wheeled around to face the voice that had originated behind them. Alexander took a moment longer, as he had taken to pressing his palm against his closed eyes and shaking his head.
“Why can’t we just get to the river… and get the hell out of here? All I want is to get out of these damned clothes and have a damned nap,” the young psychokinetic whispered in such a low volume that he was sure not even his partner could have heard him.
Eventually he too turned around to face the source of the threatening decree. And as he did so he had to stifle his need to burst out in laughter.
There were six men in total, all but one were dressed in exactly the same manner as the duelist had been (the one that Victoria had killed a few minutes prior). They seemed to be the most powerful bandit faction in the small ghost town. But the thing that had Alex on the verge of howling in laughter was the man in the center. He was the sole cowboy dressed differently than his comrades. First off, the lead cowboy, presumably the source of the warning, was incredibly short – nigh a midget. A high-crowned cowboy hat with an absolutely massive brim sat upon his head, which was masked in a sea of red facial hair and very thick auburn eyebrows; he had the single most impressive mustache that Trafford had ever seen – it nearly reached his long-sleeved brown tunic and, in a few years time, it could easily reach his dirty, blue denim jeans.
Alexander recognized the man, although he was not sure that Victoria did. It was, of course, Yosemite Sam. One of his favorite Looney Tunes characters, who was only seconded by Elmer Fudd.
“Yosemite Sam?” Alex questioned, just to be sure of the man’s identity.
“Yeah, Yosemite Sam, the roughest, toughest, he-man-stuffest hombre who’s ever crossed the Rio Grade . . . And I don’t mean Mahatma Ghandi!” the tiny, fiercely-mustached man bellowed his riposte. He let loose a few shots into the air to show that he meant business. “Now all of you skunks clear on outta here! I’m a-commandeering this here town.”
This declaration was met with more gunfire, and howling from his pack of loyal cowboys. Trafford wasn’t sure if he should be afraid or awe-struck – this was Yosemite Sam after all. First pirates, then the Titanic, after that a space battle and now a firefight with a classic cartoon villain and his band of buffoons. How much more ridiculous could this reality get?
Luckily, Trafford was rarely without a clever idea. Fire must sometimes be met with fire, his father had so often told him, so, he figured, it must hold true that hyper masculine machismo must be met with equally unnecessary machismo. There was only one man who was tough and rugged enough to counter someone like Yosemite Sam, and it was none other than Clint Eastwood.
“Let me show you how this quoting thing is done,” Alex leaned to the side and whispered so that only Victoria could hear him.
“Ahem . . .” he feigned a cough and subsequently gained the attention of Yosemite Sam and his gang before directing his index finger and counting his opponents, “One, two, three, four, five, and six - six, the perfect number.”
“Whattya talkin’ about,” Yosemite Sam replied instantly, “I thought three was the perfect number.”
Sam’s version did not follow his segment of the quote word-for-word, but it was a fair adaptation of Angel Eyes’ interaction with Blondie in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
“I’ve got six more bullets in my gun.” Alexander completed the quote and lifted his guns.
Yeah, he thought to himself, I just drew my Desert Eagles on Yosemite Sam. How badass is that? No one back home will ever believe this story, he thought to himself, not even Moe.
He smirked and pulled back on the tight triggers, consequently sending the first two bullets towards the bandit gang. He did not stop there, however, as the massive handguns recoiled he quickly brought them back to rest and continued tugging on the weapon’s simplistic firing mechanism. A sea of golden-hued steel cylinders crossed the divide between the two participants and their cartoon-led assailants.
“Ooooooh!” Yosemite Sam bellowed, as he so often did in his cartoon, and leapt in the air as his mustache-masked face contorted in frustration.
“You’ve got to ask yourself one question: ‘Do I feel lucky?’” There was a slight pause, before the girl, whose name was indeed Victoria, continued, “Well, do ya, punk?”
“What in the hell . . .?” he whispered in confusion. Trafford cocked an eyebrow and whirled around on his heel, his mouth slightly ajar in confusion. “Dirty Harry, really?”
His dumbfounded cries were drowned out by the sound of gunfire; the two combatants quickly raised their respective weapons and fired. The cowboy recoiled as the bolt of electricity slammed against his torso and ripped open a fatal hole just above his abdomen. Alex’s eyes flashed from the collapsing body to his partner and, as he sighed in relief, noticed that she was standing unharmed.
An air of confidence surrounded the coral-haired warrior, who flashed Alex a smug grin as she tallied another fatality. He rolled his eyes and took one last inhalation on the ‘dead’ cigarette before removing it from his lips and casting it down into the coarse sand.
“Let’s head to the river,” Victoria recommended as she made her way across the momentarily silent street.
Alexander nodded absentmindedly; he was still wondering how despite all of the Clint Eastwood quotes that actually pertained to gunfights in the Wild West she had managed to choose one of the few that did not. On the other hand, as a major Clint Eastwood fan, he was impressed that she had recited the line so flawlessly. Eventually, as they started walking towards the river, he let the subject drift from his mind.
“So, uh, you seem to be pretty damned good with that thing,” Alex muttered, breaking the silence as he pointed towards Victoria’s still smoking fingertip. He’d seen warriors unleash devastating energy blasts before, but none who fired them with such precision and compact power. And her energy seemed different, in a way. His partner, the confident female fighter with rose colored hair, reminded him of Sage, except that instead of using ice she used electricity.
How cool was that? Alexander thought to himself. He wished that he could shoot electricity from his fingertips! It seemed that the further he ventured forth into this new world of super-powered enemies and allies he found men and women with equally new and unique abilities. In a strange way it actually made him feel . . . normal. He could not explain how in words, but in his mind he imagined a line graph that described how he felt: as the number of people with abilities increased, his perception of himself as a freak decreased. It was an inverse relationship that explained his complicated emotions; although he was still lonely, he was not alone.
“Not so fast you varmints!”
Victoria flashed her eyes at Trafford for a moment, and then wheeled around to face the voice that had originated behind them. Alexander took a moment longer, as he had taken to pressing his palm against his closed eyes and shaking his head.
“Why can’t we just get to the river… and get the hell out of here? All I want is to get out of these damned clothes and have a damned nap,” the young psychokinetic whispered in such a low volume that he was sure not even his partner could have heard him.
Eventually he too turned around to face the source of the threatening decree. And as he did so he had to stifle his need to burst out in laughter.
There were six men in total, all but one were dressed in exactly the same manner as the duelist had been (the one that Victoria had killed a few minutes prior). They seemed to be the most powerful bandit faction in the small ghost town. But the thing that had Alex on the verge of howling in laughter was the man in the center. He was the sole cowboy dressed differently than his comrades. First off, the lead cowboy, presumably the source of the warning, was incredibly short – nigh a midget. A high-crowned cowboy hat with an absolutely massive brim sat upon his head, which was masked in a sea of red facial hair and very thick auburn eyebrows; he had the single most impressive mustache that Trafford had ever seen – it nearly reached his long-sleeved brown tunic and, in a few years time, it could easily reach his dirty, blue denim jeans.
Alexander recognized the man, although he was not sure that Victoria did. It was, of course, Yosemite Sam. One of his favorite Looney Tunes characters, who was only seconded by Elmer Fudd.
“Yosemite Sam?” Alex questioned, just to be sure of the man’s identity.
“Yeah, Yosemite Sam, the roughest, toughest, he-man-stuffest hombre who’s ever crossed the Rio Grade . . . And I don’t mean Mahatma Ghandi!” the tiny, fiercely-mustached man bellowed his riposte. He let loose a few shots into the air to show that he meant business. “Now all of you skunks clear on outta here! I’m a-commandeering this here town.”
This declaration was met with more gunfire, and howling from his pack of loyal cowboys. Trafford wasn’t sure if he should be afraid or awe-struck – this was Yosemite Sam after all. First pirates, then the Titanic, after that a space battle and now a firefight with a classic cartoon villain and his band of buffoons. How much more ridiculous could this reality get?
Luckily, Trafford was rarely without a clever idea. Fire must sometimes be met with fire, his father had so often told him, so, he figured, it must hold true that hyper masculine machismo must be met with equally unnecessary machismo. There was only one man who was tough and rugged enough to counter someone like Yosemite Sam, and it was none other than Clint Eastwood.
“Let me show you how this quoting thing is done,” Alex leaned to the side and whispered so that only Victoria could hear him.
“Ahem . . .” he feigned a cough and subsequently gained the attention of Yosemite Sam and his gang before directing his index finger and counting his opponents, “One, two, three, four, five, and six - six, the perfect number.”
“Whattya talkin’ about,” Yosemite Sam replied instantly, “I thought three was the perfect number.”
Sam’s version did not follow his segment of the quote word-for-word, but it was a fair adaptation of Angel Eyes’ interaction with Blondie in The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.
“I’ve got six more bullets in my gun.” Alexander completed the quote and lifted his guns.
Yeah, he thought to himself, I just drew my Desert Eagles on Yosemite Sam. How badass is that? No one back home will ever believe this story, he thought to himself, not even Moe.
He smirked and pulled back on the tight triggers, consequently sending the first two bullets towards the bandit gang. He did not stop there, however, as the massive handguns recoiled he quickly brought them back to rest and continued tugging on the weapon’s simplistic firing mechanism. A sea of golden-hued steel cylinders crossed the divide between the two participants and their cartoon-led assailants.
“Ooooooh!” Yosemite Sam bellowed, as he so often did in his cartoon, and leapt in the air as his mustache-masked face contorted in frustration.
![[Image: alext.jpg]](http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v234/waffuru/alext.jpg)