western medicine

by DYLAN BROWN

I was working as a fake gunslinger in Virginia City, Nevada and was shot dead in the street four times a day. The crowds ballooned on Saturdays when whole families made the trip. Our gang, The Bulldogs, sauntered up C Street in our dusters, tipping our hats to all the “gals” and “kiddos” before getting mowed down by a blitz of imaginary bullets from the Sheriff Drummond’s posse. My official billing, should anyone ever need to know, was Hired Hand Number Three. My job interview took place in a busted construction trailer where I noticed the temperature had been set to sixty-two degrees. 

“Low as it’ll go,” my boss said, regrettably, rubbing the beads of sweat off his forehead. “Anyway, Hired Hand Number Three usually falls to his knees first before flumping flat on his face. The script calls for, uhh, gut-shot bewilderment.”

I’d never heard anyone say “flump” before but I nodded.

“No fancy shit,” he said. “This ain’t Shakespeare.”

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