Howdy!

Old Ray sat in his rocking chair chewing his favourite Oliver Twist and half-used bible by his side, doing what he liked best - long for the years long forgone. His writhed with pain as a rogue speck of tobacco pierced through the left gum. His set of dentals had been once been the pride of Rocksville. Dr. Bernard round the corner had once offered two thousand quids and a life-long dental care assurance of the false ones for his set to be put up in his showcase. Even Marty envied them. He regretted now to have turned down the doctor's offer of what were now irregular chipped pieces of yellow rock.

Old Peggy left her pail and came over to talk to her husband, for she knew where his mind wandered.
Ray - "Our fate has gone off to a deep slumber. Doesn't even wake up on Thanksgiving."
Peggy - "Don't you curse fate. Nothing other than dust, comes around sitting in the Sun on this chair. No work comes up walking to your doorstep. Stop beating the devil about the stump for heavens' sake."

Just as Ray realized where this conversation was going he was relieved to see his old pal Billy coming up on old Tolstoy. Peggy hastily picked up her pail and went inside the cottage. Ray was not one of her favorites.

Ray remembered the days when Billy and himself where the best showmen in town. Maybe they still were. Rowdy, short-tempered young men - ready for hire, B'hoys as they loved to call themselves. They loved their jobs. Putting on the caboodle - Bandanna, chaps, gloves, boots, spurs and the hat - doing stunt scenes for movie and documentary directors infatuated with Texas. The wealthy ambitious goons who paid for the entire town to go camping, so that they could have complete silence and capture the sounds of buzzing flies, creaking doors and rustling mud. They were an extinct breed now and so were Billy and Ray.

"Any news, brother?", asked Billy half-heartedly rolling up a brain tablet for himself.
"Bosh, I tell you. Let's go up to Vegas I say and stand at gates giving ugly sly looks to the visitors. That will earn us some pieces of Lincoln".
Billy sensed the mood.
"Don't you worry, good sir, you need to be dead meat before you see the mighty Gospel Mill. Nothing comes around easily. Hear what I propose. Let us gig our rides and hit the Westrock bar. They say a great many punters-wanna-be-punks have necktie-parties there watching High Plains Drifters".

Ray liked the idea of having a couple of Cowboy Cocktails and preaching to young jarhead laddies. He whistled and Marty led out a slow whimper. In his prime he ran ahead of the pack in The Great Train Robbery, but now the small ride to the town centre tired him. Moreover, Ray was known for putting his spurs to use frequently and unnecessarily.

"Gitty-up".

The town centre was unusually buzzy. The new electronic store added to the hullaboo. Westrock was at the corner of the street and was easily spotted for its wooden exteriors. Ray laughed at how the movies painted Rocksville. There were more people in the town centre than there were in 10 western movies combined.

Billy and ray let themselves in and settled in the centre. Their entrance was not preceded by any particular symphony nor did the place quiet down. Everyone did throw a sideward glance for they were out of place, two old rowdies in a joint meant for humbugs. Everyone here brought their kit in bags and changed inside the bar lest they become the laughing stock of the town.

"Two large Base Burners boy!"

As time passed the men were off on another bender and the saplings got interested. Drunkards were not a common site here as diuretics like cranberry juice were the chart-toppers. And then Billy burst into the Cowboys Lament.

As I walked out in the streets of Laredo,
As I walked out in Laredo one day,
I spied a young cowboy wrapped up in white linen,
Wrapped up in white linen and cold as the clay.

Ray piped in.

"O beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly;
Play the Dead March as you carry me along.
Take me to the green valley and lay the sod o're me,
For I'm a young cowboy and I know I done wrong."

This in particular piqued everyone's interest. Soon there was a huddle round the small center-table with youngsters trying to pick up the tune.

"Lads - boots, hats and check shirts are not what makes you a real cowboy, are they?", said Ray

Everyone suddenly noticed a striking similarity in the gear they were wearing. Everyone had picked it up from Maceys Texan Clearance Collection on the way to Rocksville. Billy and Ray were climbing the ladder of respect six rungs at a time.

"What makes you a real cowboy are cigars, and guns"

"Hear, hear." enchanted the crowd.

"And I am not talking about strawberry or honey flavoured makins that you scallywags smoke, but that ones that make you lunger with each fag. Oliver Twist rolled up in Maduro cuban leaf. If anybody dissents with this should speak now. Shoot, Luke, or give up the Gun."

Billy could see some cigars being dropped to the floor silently.

"Pajeros", continued Ray, "between your thumb and index. The best thing that most of you ladies will ever hold."

"And guns, ah! But that is for some other time. Additionally, guns kill."

Marty was on the door already. Billy followed suit.

Ray slept early that day. It was monday tomorrow and he had an early meeting with his project manager.