The Wacky Adventures of Woody Welldun

Black sheep of the flock...and not happy about it.

 

   “Draw!”
   The shout brought Woody Welldun out of his hangover induced reverie. He knew he shouldn’t have stayed so late at the saloon last night.
   He looked at the heavily bearded man standing a little way along the decking outside his house, pointing a gun at him.
   He sighed and pulled his own gun out of it’s holster at his side. These gunfights were starting to get quite annoying. It was getting to the point where you couldn’t step out of your own home without someone shouting “Draw!” at you. Most of them didn’t even do it right. Woody wasn’t what you’d call a traditional cowboy, but he knew how these fights worked. Obviously he’d never actually taken part in one, but he knew the basics. Two people agreed on a place to meet and fight beforehand, then they walked a few paces away from each other, drew their guns and then the fight started. The fights these people were starting in front of people’s houses just weren’t organised enough. You didn’t just shout draw and shoot at people. It wasn’t how things worked.
   Woody shook his head sadly as he watched the man �" who really needed a shave �" fumble for the trigger (not waiting for Woody to be ready as well, another breach of basic cowboy gunfight rules). This town really needed sorting out.
   Woody had got so used to this that he had perfected a way of taking the opponent by surprise, not killing him but giving Woody a chance to escape. It also helped him clean up the town, bit by bit. He waited for the perfect moment, then threw himself to the floor, narrowly avoiding the bullet that would have hit him in the chest but instead smashed through a window and, judging by the shout of annoyance and the sound of glass smashing, hit a glass of drink. Woody then used the momentum from throwing himself on the floor to slide across the decking to just before the bearded man, who was still working out what had happened. He then raised his gun and whacked his opponent in the groin with it.
   As the hairy man doubled over in pain, Woody grabbed his gun, and the one in his other holster, and then the Winchester slung over his back, and ran back inside his house. He slammed the door shut and locked it. Then pulled across the bolt at the top. Then the one at the bottom. Then the one in the floor. Then the one in the ceiling. Then the other five bolts. Then, just for good measure, he pulled a table across it.
   He took the stairs two at a time and threw open the bedroom door. Beside the bed was a chest of drawers that had been made for him before he moved here. He pulled open the top drawer. Or tried to. He cursed as he rattled it madly, desperately trying to dislodge whatever it was that was jamming it. Just to add insult to injury, or more appropriately, injury to insult, when it did finally dislodge, it fell onto his foot. As he hopped up and down in pain, about 10 six-shooters scattered across the floor, one unfortunately going off and putting a hole in Woody’s quilt.
    He squatted down and quickly gathered all the guns up and put them back in the drawer. Then he added the two new guns he had acquired off the man who was now banging on the door shouting something about “Coward!”. It took a while to force the drawer in but all this was necessary. He was going to make this town a better place to live.
   The guns were all stolen from men like the one who seemed to have given up on Woody and gone off somewhere to lick his wounds. They were all stupid. They all had guns. They were all always drunk. They all needed a shave. And Woody hated them all so much. He didn’t come here to be violently attacked every five minutes. If he wanted that he’d have stayed with his girlfriend.
   He quickly stashed the big Winchester in his wardrobe and headed into the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. Quickly, he combed his hair, ruffled by his encounter, and smoothed down his clothes.
   He admired himself. Woody Jesse Welldun. Hair �" well-cut (his own work), well combed, well-washed. Chin �" completely bristle free. Clothes �" suit. Nice and clean. Glasses. A respectable gentleman. Unfortunately, he was a respectable gentleman in a town full of not so respectable cowboys. But anywhere was better than with his girlfriend.
   When he was finished, he went back downstairs. He looked through the make-shift peephole to check there was no one outside, then undid all the locks and stepped outside. He hurried through the streets to the saloon and pushed through the swinging doors. He plonked himself down in front of the bar. The bar man looked up at him, and Woody could tell by his expression that he was not happy to see Woody.
   “Just a Tarantula Juice .” said Woody.
   The bar man grunted in response and went to pour Woody some.
   Woody hated the stuff. He’d settle for a good old pint of beer any day, or even better a nice, warm, cup of tea. He so missed his old home. What am I doing here? It was a question he constantly asked himself. One he never answered.
   He drank the disgusting beverage, trying not to show his distaste. It was pretty much all you could get in this town.
   The saloon door swung open and a big, beefy man walked through. He was just like the rest of them. Scruffy, bearded, stupid, menacing...Woody fought the urge to roll his eyes, instead ignoring the man and going back to his disgusting Tarantula Juice .
   However, it became very hard to ignore the man as he grabbed Woody by the collar and pulled up to face him. These people really should wash as well.
   “I’ve been ‘earing stories ‘bout you, mister Welldun.” said the large man.
   “Oh...really,” Woody squeaked.
   “Yeah. I ‘ear that you were all underhand and mean to my friend, Mr Goon over there,” he gestured behind him at the door, where the man Woody had faced earlier stood, glaring at Woody, the pain still in his eyes (something which gave Woody a small sense of satisfaction). “Then, what’s more,” continued the large man holding Woody. “You went an’ stole ‘is gun.”
   Woody said nothing.
   “So,” said the man. “I’m going to have a proper gun fight with you. We’ll do it properly. No cheating. No loopholes.”
   Woody squeaked in fear.
   “See you at One, outside this saloon.” said the man. He then dropped Woody to the floor and pushed past his friend, the one he had called Mr. Goon, and outside. Mr Goon set off after him, walking oddly from his pain. He looked back at Woody, glaring at him, as he reached the doors. They were still swinging from when the large man had pushed through them a moment earlier. One of them hit Goon. He stumbled back. Laughter erupted around the room, but Woody didn’t join in. He was leaning against the bar, trying to see a way out of the torture that no doubt awaited him at one that afternoon, outside the saloon. For once, his own cunning failed him.

 

To be continued...

 

Author's Note

Part two to come soon
Image ~ DomainNameNews.com

Reviews

[~Mariposa Una Lila~]

well yeeeeeeeee hawwwwwwwwwwwwwww !!!!! x0x0x0x00x0

[Andrew (not Andy, A.J. ..]

LOL you added in the winchester! Good one!
One or two criticisms. One, You can't dodge bullets. No matter how fast you are. Unless of course you're Neo or Agent Smith. Another thing is, a man doesn't recover from being hit in the family jewels quickly. I remember a little while ago when my bro kicked me in the nards and I was OUT. I couldn't get up for at LEAST five minutes. The guy seems to get up after a few seconds.
Sarsaparilla, is that a joke? That's so overused. You do know that Sarsaparilla is a soft drink...? It's overused in westerns.
Another thing; too many adverbs! TOO MANY!
One more thing; A little too slapstick. The thing with the guy getting hit by the door and that kind of stuff isn't really that funny. See, the movie makers can make it funny because you can SEE people in movies. But us writers have to rely on more subtle forms of humor. Jokes and funny scenes and such. Get my drift?
Anyway, Gj a definite winner.
Andrew

[T A Duncan]

lol, I enjoyed this. I look forward to reading more.