Well, it got so that every piss-ant prairie punk who thought he could shoot a gun would ride into town to try out the Waco Kid. I must have killed more men than Cecil B. DeMille. It got pretty gritty. I started to hear the word "draw" in my sleep. Then one day I was just walking down the street, when I heard a voice behind me say, "Reach for it, mister!" I spun around, and there I was face-to-face with a six-year-old kid. Well, I just threw my guns down and walked away. Little bastard shot me in the ass! So I limped to the nearest saloon, crawled inside a whiskey bottle, and I've been there ever since.
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