Seth MacFarlane - A Million Ways to Die in the West

“Did you shoot the black condor and kick it in the balls?” asked the wizened old warrior.

Albert was startled. “Yes. How do you know that?”

Cochise’s eyes crinkled as he gave Albert a warm, knowing smile. “It means that true courage does indeed lie within you. If you can trust in its power, then you may yet find happiness.”

Several hours later, Albert stood facing the entire Apache tribe at the edge of their camp. He regarded Cochise with a look of gratitude. Albert had begun his odyssey as their prisoner, and now he was closing it out as the beneficiary of their wisdom and kindness.

“Thank you for everything, Chief Cochise. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”

Cochise gave him a look that was almost paternal. “There is an ancient proverb among my people: Sometimes the only way for a man to discover his true path is to take drugs in a group.”

Albert nodded. “Thank you for letting me take drugs with you. I know what I have to do now.”

He gave Cochise a long embrace, mounted Curtis, and waved goodbye. The Apaches watched as he galloped off toward his destiny.

The main thoroughfare of Old Stump was overcast and deserted as Clinch Leatherwood dragged his wife out into the center of the street, his pistol pressed against her side. Lewis, Ben, and the rest of the gang watched with amusement as their leader began his deadly theatrical display.

“All right, sweetheart,” he whispered into her ear, his foul breath assailing her nostrils, “now we’re gonna find out whether your little boyfriend gives a fuck about you.” Clinch took out the gold pocket watch for which he’d shot a man not three months before. “He’s got six minutes till noon. If he doesn’t show, he’s gonna be picking up pieces of you all over the street.” Clinch shouted at the empty horizon. “STARK!!”

There was no answer. Anna stood stone-faced, ever the picture of courage. She knew she was going to die today, but she also knew she’d be goddamned if she’d give her bastard of a husband the pleasure of seeing her break. In reality, the last thing she wanted was for Albert to make an appearance. There was no way he stood a chance against Clinch. She already felt the regretful sting of her own betrayal, and she did not want to be responsible, indirectly or not, for his death.

For a moment, they all struck a morbid tableau: a large and sinister man with a reptilian gaze standing rigidly in the center of the street, a loaded pistol against his wife’s ribs, his gang watching as if they were witnessing a carnival show rather than a prelude to murder, and dozens of goatish frontier faces with fearful eyes peering helplessly from windows, doorways, alleys, all too terrified to emerge. Even the sheriff watched from the safety of his office, displaying his usual ineffectiveness.

And then, from the distance, the sound of hooves. As they grew closer, Anna’s heart sank even deeper. No, Albert, no! Get out of here or he’ll kill you too!

Albert appeared astride his horse at the end of the thoroughfare. When he came to a halt, his clumsy, nerdish dismount only amplified her distress. Was he insane? He was a sheep farmer with one week of shooting practice under his belt, and he was going to go up against the deadliest outlaw in the West?

“Let her go, Clinch.” To his credit, Albert’s voice was steady.

Clinch gave Anna a loveless squeeze. “Well, now,” he said with an evil grin, “true love conquers all, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

“Albert, don’t be stupid!” she shouted desperately. “Get the hell out of here!”

Clinch twisted her arm, hard. “Too late for that,” said the outlaw. “He’s already been real stupid, haven’t you, Stark? You’ve been with my wife.”

Albert seemed to carefully measure his response. “Well, I mean, we haven’t done it, if that makes a difference.”

Clinch shoved Anna roughly toward Lewis, who restrained her firmly—and with far too much pleasure—and leveled his gun at the space between Albert’s eyes. Albert stiffened, but held the other man’s gaze. “Y’know, I hear you’re a pretty tough guy, Clinch. Well, why don’t you prove it? You and me. Gunfight. Right here, right now.”

Clinch brightened visibly. He looked almost entertained, as if someone told him he was about to be treated to a puppet show. “You really do have a death wish, don’t you?” he said with a grisly little cackle.

“But — ” Albert raised a hand. “But let’s make it interesting. One bullet apiece. One for you, one for me.”

For a moment, Clinch actually looked caught off guard. “What?”

“Yeah. Empty all your bullets but one. Unless you think you need more than one to kill me.”

Clinch hesitated. He certainly had no fear at all of this lowly, pathetic sheep farmer, but he also was clearly unable to calculate what Albert’s angle was. He eventually seemed to decide it made no difference. His dark smile returned as he emptied the chamber of his pistol save for one round.

Albert did the same.

“Okay. On the count of three, we shoot,” said Albert, a few beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead.

Clinch nodded.

Albert took a deep breath. “One… two…”

Albert fired.

He hit Clinch in the left arm.

Clinch looked down at the wound, then slowly lifted his gaze back to Albert, that awful smile spreading across his face in tandem with the blood. He let out a big guffaw that echoed eerily across the expanse of the empty town. “I been playing cards a long time, and I’ve never seen such a bad gamble, Stark. Where’d you learn to shoot?”

“Your wife.”

“Aw, snap,” whispered Edward from his doorway.

Clinch stopped laughing. He raised his gun and cocked it.

Albert dropped his own gun and raised both hands plaintively. “Look, before you shoot me… grant me a few last words. Please?”

Clinch sneered. “Why not? Yes, let’s savor this moment.”

“Okay, good. Thank you. Look—just promise me one thing. Let Anna live. Please. She didn’t kiss me, I kissed her. So it’s my fault.” Albert paused in momentary thought. “I mean, she didn’t tell me she was married, so it’s kinda her fault too, I guess, so… yeah, actually, that’s true. So maybe just shoot her in the leg? That seems fair, right?”

Anna gave him a what-the-fuck stare.

Albert went on. “And one more thing: My grandparents were Arabic, so if you’ll indulge my religious beliefs here… Immediately before death, I’m required by Muslim tradition to recite the Islamic death chant. This’ll only take a moment.” And Albert began to warble a stream of vocal dissonance that sounded like a goat being castrated.

Has he lost his fucking mind? Anna thought. It wasn’t until he’d been at it for several seconds that she became aware of a change in Clinch. He was blinking rapidly. And he’d broken out into a sweat. He glanced around unsteadily, appearing to falter a bit. His aim drifted, until eventually his gun fell from his quivering hand. He seemed to be having enormous difficulty maintaining his balance.

“What the… what the hell is happening?” he grunted weakly.

Anna had the same question. Is this witchcraft or something?

Albert ceased his warbling and addressed Clinch again. “You know, Clinch, there are a million ways to die in the West. There’s disease, famine, exposure, gunfights… and wild animals. You know, like snakes. And the interesting thing about snakes is, you don’t even have to get bitten. All you have to do is get the venom into your system, and you’re pretty much screwed. Let me tell you about a little trick some Apache friends of mine taught me recently: You take a certain amount of venom from a diamondback rattler and drain it into a hollowed-out bullet tip, and, you know what? You really only need one shot. Now, I knew my aim wasn’t good enough to hit you anywhere important, but if I caught you by surprise… Well, Anna taught me enough to get me in the ballpark. And it didn’t matter where I hit you, as long as the bullet broke the flesh. Because just a little bit of venom in an open wound is enough to kill a man if he’s—”