Seth MacFarlane - A Million Ways to Die in the West

It was his house, but empty. No—not completely empty. There was a lone rocking chair next to the cold, unlit fireplace. Because he had nowhere else to go, Albert walked to the chair and sat down .

Almost instantly the walls around him began to ripple. At first, he braced himself for another transition —Jesus, what’s next, the moon?— but it was merely the room itself that was changing. The rippling intensified, turning the walls and floor into liquefied, ocean-like waves of wood and sod. And then, abruptly, it stopped .

The room was no longer empty. There were chairs, tables, paintings, and photographs on the walls. It was still Albert’s cabin, but its personality had been entirely altered. It had been transformed into a cozy, beautifully decorated home. He almost didn’t recognize it .

And there was Anna .

She was seated in a second rocking chair on the other side of the fireplace, which now roared and crackled and gave off a warm, comforting glow. Anna smiled wordlessly at Albert as she stitched some ornately embroidered words into a pillow: Don’t go snackin’ if you been tobaccin’. After a moment, she set down her stitchery and pointed off to his right .

When he turned, he noticed a small table that hadn’t been there a second ago. On it sat a steaming cup of coffee. Albert felt himself smile. Although his clothes and skin were now somehow dry, he still felt an inner chill from the ice and snow. He could certainly use a cup of coffee. He picked it up and prepared to take a sip, but stopped as he looked into the cup. The coffee was spinning like a whirlpool. It was almost hypnotic, and soon he found that he could not take his eyes off it. He could still feel his body placed firmly in the chair, but at the same time he had the distinct sensation that he was being pulled down, down, down into the eye of the whirlpool .

And then he was no longer inside the cabin but rather was sitting on a hard, ribbed surface. He looked down . Wicker. Wicker on the floor, wicker on the walls… no, not walls . I’m in a basket. He scrambled to his feet, and his breath caught in his throat as he took in his latest surroundings .

He was floating in a hot-air balloon surrounded by trees. But these trees were impossibly, fantastically tall. Whether Albert looked up or down, he could not see where they began or ended. The trunks simply receded to infinitesimally small points in the distance .

He felt the balloon quiver slightly. When he gazed up, he saw that the fabric above him now bore a gigantic face. A face he knew all too well. Foy’s face . “Balloon moustache, balloon moustache,” it sang in echoey, dissonant, reverberating tones. Albert grimaced in repulsed confusion, but before he could react further, a dark shadow passed overhead. The black condor swooped down from above, ripping Foy’s face to shreds with its massive talons. Unfortunately, the balloon itself was also in tatters, and Albert began to plummet fast. He let out a scream as he looked down and saw the trunks racing past him at blurring speed. Still, the ground had yet to make an appearance. His fall accelerated, and Albert could feel his face rippling from the force of the descent. His insides pushed angrily at the back of his throat like an invading army with a battering ram at the gate. Then, suddenly, with a hard, skull-rattling jolt, it stopped .

He glanced up and found that the balloon had caught on a branch. He was swaying back and forth pendulously, and the branch looked ill-equipped to hold his weight for long. He looked down again and saw the forest floor at last .

It was a sea of raging fire .

The branch snapped .

Albert braced himself for death as the basket plummeted again and the flames rushed up to meet him—

THUD!

He landed on a patch of soft green grass. The impact had been harder than the others, and he thought for a moment that his nose was broken, or at least bleeding. But when he poked at it gingerly with his index finger, it felt intact. He struggled to his feet and looked around. He was standing in a wide-open field, surrounded at its perimeter by a thick layer of pine trees. It was an oddly silent place, bereft even of birdsong. And then he began to hear the clip-clop of hooves. He turned toward the sound. Approaching from the distance was the most ornate horse-drawn carriage he had ever seen. It was a bright shade of purple, and was pulled by two milk-white mares bedecked entirely in gold-colored tack. The carriage came to a stop directly in front of Albert. The horses did not stir, but Albert got the distinct sense that they were waiting for him to act. He cautiously moved toward the side door and grasped the handle. When he opened it, his head spun .

Beyond the door was the interior of a Gothic church. It was dazzling in design, lusciously opulent in décor—and full. There had to be five hundred people in attendance, all lavishly dressed and all staring expectantly at Albert. Most were strangers, but some folk he recognized from Old Stump: Edward, Ruth, Millie, Doc Harper, Sheriff Arness—and Anna .

She was dressed in a flowing white wedding gown and stood at the altar, attended by Pastor Wilson. Her gaze was warm and welcoming as she beckoned him to approach. The magnetism of the vision was irresistible. Albert stepped through the doorway…

… and tumbled out the other side of the carriage. He felt the wind knocked out of him as his rib cage absorbed the impact. He pulled himself up, clutched his side in pain, and turned back toward the open door. The church was gone. All that remained was the inside of the carriage, which looked just like any other. Even the bright purple effervescence of the surface had become dulled. He reached an arm inside, searching, grasping for any trace of the vanished mirage, but found nothing. Instead of disappointment, however, he felt something else. Anger. Something had tantalized him with this gateway to the life he wanted and then deliberately denied him access. It was then that Albert realized, with a wave of release, how tired he was of being a perpetual punching bag for the endless blows the western frontier hurled at him .

He heard the unmistakable shriek of the condor. He looked up as the monstrous creature bore down on him from the sky once again, its eyes glowing an unearthly green, its white fangs glinting bestially in the sunlight. But this time, Albert did not run. Something tugged at his waist, and when he looked down he saw that he was wearing his gun belt. Without a moment’s pause, he drew the pistol and fired several rounds at his avian attacker. To his frustration, the bullets did not pierce the bird’s skin, instead bouncing off harmlessly. However, the bird did veer away from its trajectory and circled back up into the air. It swung around for another assault, and Albert fired at it again. His gut wrenched as he heard the click-click of an empty chamber. No more bullets .

The condor dove directly for him. He was about to run when he noticed a bulbous feathered convexity between the condor’s legs . A ball sack, he realized. Completely exposed and unprotected. Could it be that easy …? The bird came at him, shrieking with open jaws. As it overtook him, Albert kicked the ball sack as hard as he could with the toe of his boot. The condor let out an earsplitting, hellish scream that echoed all across the field as it spun away, head over tail, off into the sky, until it vanished to a pinprick of darkness against the sun .

Albert sat up with a violent start. The light was suddenly gone. He could feel a thick coat of perspiration descending the surface of his face. As he took in his surroundings, he realized he was still sitting around the campfire, with the Apaches watching him intently. The first pink ribbons of dawn were visible on the edge of the horizon. Albert felt a gentle hand on his shoulder. It was Cochise.