Cow Punchers solve their problems with their fist, whether it's shaking them at a disagreeable feller in a disreputable saloon or using them to punch a slightly more disagreeable feller in a slightly less reputable saloon. You've hear that Cow Punchers are in demand out West since The Cows Came Home, which stands to reason. The Cows aren't gonna punch themselves, after all.
When you were a child, you wanted to walk so badly. You finally have.
Well heck, I say all kinds o'things! F'r'instance: Dagnab machines, can't trust em no more'n a double-crossin' so-an'-so!
After you're done reading it, you donate it to a local orphanage. Soon those orphans will be able to make their escape! Go, orphans, go!
A wave of nausea hits you as you slide the heavy lid of the chest. Inside there is a hat. It looks... evil. And not in an abstract way... it has eyes, and the look like the eyes of a murderer. And it has teeth, which look like the teeth of an animal who would be a murderer if animals understood the concept of murder.
Just look at this place! So much hustle! So much bustle!
What's new is a profund sense of longin' and loneliness.
It feels strange to be fighting alongside demonic clowns, but I guest war makes strange bedfellows. Ugh, please ignore the fact that I just used 'demonic clowns' and 'bedfellows' in the same sentence.
No good can come of criminals with access to hat-making machinery.