An old west dime novel writer is out looking for a good story when he wanders into a saloon. He sees a group of rough rider lookin’ scoundrels playing poker and he musters up enough courage to sit down with them (thinking he might get a story out if he was lucky). “Mind if I play?”
The others look up with a scowl that would curdle milk, but one looks at the clock and shakes his head. He points out the time to the others and they gather up their chips and go.
“Play alone, we’re a-leavin’. Wild Bill’s comin’ to town.”
The writer is confused, but smells a story brewing; a strong one at that. He hoofs it up to the bar, passing most other patrons on their way out, and slaps a whole dollar bill on the table, “Barkeep, give me a beer and a story, and you can keep the change.”
After taking a quick glance at the clock, the bartender shakes his head, pours the beer, and pushes the bill back to the man.
“The drink is on the house, but I suggest you drink it quick and leave. Wild Bill is coming to town.”
Without another word the bartender puts his last glass away and walks right out the swinging doors, leaving the writer in an empty bar.
Now fear in his gut tears at him as he hears the emptiness in that bar. This emptiness seems to seep in as he realizes that he’s about to be the last man in this town, alone with only the sound of that ticking clock to keep him company. Still, a story of this calibre must be worth something; so he waits.
Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, Bong! Just as the clock strikes the first chime of 12, a sound like thunder splitting a mountain is heard outside. The author runs to the doors to see what it is. In the distance and closing fast is a tornado coming right for the bar. He hits the ground and watches as the tornado comes up to the bar and stops.
The wind settles and there is a giant of a man riding a grizzly bear. He steps off the bear, and instead of hitching it, he punches the great beast right in the face, knocking it cold on the ground.
The writer is so scared he runs back into the bar and dives behind the counter, sure that this is the last of his days. The giant man kicks in the saloon doors, and they turn to splinters that imbed themselves into the walls and break bottles and glasses that they touch.
The man walks up to the bar, breaking every floor board with each thundering step. He looks down at the writer and slams his fist on the bar, cracking it down the middle, “Gimme a drink!”
He comes up, shakily holding out two bottles of whisky; which the giant snatches up, chews the glass tops off of, and drinks down as fast as the amber liquid can spill from the bottles. He throws both bottles in the air, whips out his six-shooter and fires off a round. The single bullet rips through both bottles showering the weakened author with shards that rain down.
Regretting his curiosity and repenting of his life, the writer stands on weakened legs and whimpers out, “W-w-w-would y-you like a-another drink?”
The man turns to him, fire in his eyes, then glances at the clock… “Nah, I gotta go. Wild Bill’s comin’ to town.”