Seth MacFarlane - A Million Ways to Die in the West

Albert Stark was a coward. Not a quivering, jittery, weak-kneed sort of a coward, but the kind who viewed his cowardice as an act of sensibility: a coward in the name of pragmatism. To Albert, his cowardice functioned as a shield that existed to service the very sensible goal of self-preservation. In the West, brave men got killed. Cowards stayed alive.

Death was everywhere on the frontier.

“Everything that’s not you wants you dead,” Albert would often say. “Outlaws, Indians, angry gamblers, disgruntled prostitutes, wild animals, the weather, disease—hell, even a trip to the dentist means taking your fucking life in your hands.”

One needed only to glance at the front page of any local newspaper to see the truth in such a point of view:

INFANT TRAMPLED BY SICKLY MARE

HUNDREDS PERISH IN LATE SPRING DAMP

SCHOOLMARM FELLED BY TUMBLEWEED ABRASION

MASS HANGING GOES WELL

MUD DEATHS REACH 30-YEAR HIGH

DUTCH FAMILY CRUSHED BY FALLING CHINAMEN

WOMAN FOUND GUILTY OF ADULTERY; TONGUE, BREASTS REMOVED

50-ACRE BUFFALO HERD DESTROYS TOWN

WATER TOWER CONTAMINATED BY BATHING NEGRESS

BLACK BEARS FEAST ON KINDERGARTEN CLASS

HAIL STORM DRIVES SNAKES INTO LOCAL CHURCH—NO SURVIVORS

Yes, it seemed to Albert that fear was a very useful thing for a man living in the southern Arizona territory.

So on this blistering hot day he was quite content to once again allow cowardice to insulate him from an early demise.

He stood at the center of the thoroughfare, gun belt at the ready—or so it appeared. The townsfolk of Old Stump lined the street, eager as ever to witness that most electrifying of all frontier spectacles: the showdown. But at the moment, Albert stood alone. His opponent was nowhere to be seen, and high noon had officially come and gone. No one spoke, save for the occasional fluttering murmurs of slightly confused anticipation from the onlookers. Dirt farmers watched patiently. Women fanned themselves, desperately attempting to force a few little bursts of air between their numerous layers of clothing. Well-to-do gentlemen checked their pocket watches and smoked the sort of fine cigars one can only truly enjoy outdoors in 112-degree weather. Children fidgeted and played idly with their favorite toys, such as apple cores, bits of string, and deceased mice. Dogs lay panting on the ground, no doubt wondering how the fuck any human being could live a non-suicidal existence in such an awful, depressing place.

Albert tried to avoid eye contact with the surrounding spectators, aside from the occasional shared glance with a strikingly beautiful blond-haired woman who stood on the steps in front of the general store. She offered him a wan smile, perhaps meant to be reassuring but with a seemingly dubious degree of conviction.

And then, at last, they heard the sound of approaching hoofbeats. Very faint and distant at first, then more distinct, until finally a man rode into view at the opposite end of the thoroughfare. He slowed his horse with a sharp yank on the reins that appeared to startle the animal, though it came to an obedient halt. The man dismounted and moved with a decided lack of urgency into position at the end of the street.

Albert stiffened and regarded his opponent. Charlie Blanche and Albert Stark could not have been more contrasting in their deportment: Blanche was a grizzled, weathered-looking mass of aggression, who looked as though he hadn’t smiled since the days of Lewis and Clark. He glared at Albert with an expression that seemed to say, I want to shoot you in the dick with a bullet made of cancer .

Albert cleared his throat. “So… I guess high noon to you means 12:15?”

Charlie stared blankly for a beat. “What?”

“Well,” said Albert, genuinely annoyed in spite of his fear, “I mean, you said high noon, and I was here, and… I’ve sort of just been waiting.”

Blanche narrowed his eyes darkly. “I’m here now.”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s just—it’s like sort of inconsiderate, because it’s like you’re saying that your time is more valuable than everyone else’s, and… well, I know everybody here has like a full day, and they all took time off to be here, and—I mean, right, everyone?”

No one answered. Albert looked around furtively in search of a supportive face but found none. His gaze landed on a toothless old man who did not look like he had a full day at all. The man stared emptily, his tongue sliding along the perimeter of his solitary tooth, like a sentry dutifully patrolling the last remaining outpost of an all-but-defeated army.

“Draw,” said Charlie Blanche.

A wave of renewed alertness swept over the onlookers as they shared a collective inhalation. Now the show would begin!

Albert took a deep breath of his own. “Um… no.”

A perplexed buzzing from the townsfolk. The pretty blond woman regarded Albert with a look of confused dismay.

“What do you mean, no?” Blanche narrowed his eyes further, nearly squinting them out of existence.

Albert took another deep breath. “I… I don’t wanna do this. You’re a way better shot than me, and so before this gets outta hand and we both get all crazy and dead here, I… I don’t wanna have a shoot-out.”

“You yellow, Stark?” The corner of Blanche’s mouth twisted into a perversion of a half smile—no doubt the warmest expression his long-rotted disposition would accommodate.

“Well, look, yellow is kind of a”—Albert paused uneasily—“I mean, that’s kind of racist to our hardworking friends from the Far East, right, guys?”

He turned to a small cluster of Chinese railroad workers watching from off to the side. Surely now he’d get a small boost of support. The shortest Chinaman gave him the finger.

“O-okay,” Albert stuttered. “Welcome.”

Blanche barked out a gravelly laugh. “Even the damn Chinese know you’re yellow!”

Albert turned back to face his adversary. “Look, I—I just wanna resolve things more reasonably, okay? I mean, we’re both intelligent adults, right? So… I’m just gonna pay you for the damages.”

Blanche’s expression did not change. “Suits me fine. That’s fifty dollars.”

“Right, okay,” said Albert, fidgeting slightly.

“Now, here’s the thing… I don’t have fifty dollars in cash—”

Charlie’s hand moved toward the butt of his gun.

“ —but … I will give you twenty-five sheep.”

Charlie’s index finger was almost touching the trigger. “I don’t want sheep, Stark.”

Heat sweat was suddenly interfused with panic sweat as Albert realized he was in trouble. “Well, this—this is a lotta sheep. This is like twenty-five sheep. Like a whole… gaggle. A pack? Is it a pack?” He laughed anxiously as his floundering brain let loose a diarrhetic stream of nonsense. “Oh, my God, can you believe this?! I’m a sheep farmer, and I’m totally blanking on the plural—is it a school of sheep? I don’t know! Ha! Hey, you know what a group of ferrets is called? A business . A business of ferrets. English is fun, ’cause there’s all kinds of secret treasures—”

The crack of a bullet split the air as Charlie Blanche fired a shot at Albert’s feet. Albert jumped back with a distinctly feminine shriek.