The shorter stranger took a step back, and without notice fired his gun. He shot his weapon at the chandelier, one, two, three...five shots? The glass-eyed man fell back off his chair in a cry of terror, and a saloon girl screamed as the light fixture crashed to the ground and shattered. There were no windows here, and now only candlelight lit the face of the menaces.
“I know what you're thinking, Bill” stated the shorter.
Bill was too shocked to reply.
“You're thinking, 'Did he fire six shots or only five?'. Now to tell you the truth, I forgot in all this excitement.”
Bill was frozen behind the counter. The bandits regarded the stranger with wild eyes.
The bar held it's breath for his next words.
“But being this is a .44 Magnum,” he held up chunky, strange looking pistol, “The most powerful handgun in the world, and will blow you head clean off, you've gotta ask yourself a question”.
The menace moved in to Bill.
"Do I feel lucky?"
The man formerly passed out on the table looked up and raised an eyebrow.
“Well, do ya, punk?”
The bar was silent for what felt like an eternity. Then-
“Oh, go on Bill, you might as well give up the ghost. I'm right here.”
All in the bar whipped around to search for the face that matched this new voice. It had come from the man formerly passed out on the table- somehow, he now stood behind the menaces- had he moved whilst the bar was distracted? He was dressed in the dirty rags of a dark suit, and had a month's growth of black hair on his neck. Bill's panicked eyes flickered between Fletcher and the strangers, waiting for a response.
The shorter menace scowled. The taller's eyes were wide. The man continued.
“You couldn't resist quoting Clint, could you? Wrong film by the way, definitely not a western. Anyway, judging by what I can see, I'd say Sinclair's been tinkering with my time machine again, and also learned Ventriloquism whilst I've been away. That's a masterful western accent, you've developed. And the other one of you...your disguise is good, but not enough.”
He stepped lightly forward to greet the shorter.
“Hello Chess, long time no see. Wrong Clint film, by the way.”
The shorter, if it was possible, narrowed his eyes further until they were slitted like a cats. His reply, however, confused most of his audience. For it was the voice of a woman, and most certainly not the voice he'd been using before.
“Fletcher. You haven't lost your touch of drama, you smug bastard.”
“Oh, come here you”.
The two embraced, leaving the bar in a bewildered silence. The Taller smiled widely and brightly, much too airily for a criminal.
If there had been a device to measure the level of suspicion in the room, it would have exploded by now. The scene in front of them confused most of those watching- the bandits at the back cast suspicious glances over them all. The woman-man, the tall man currently smiling like an idiot and watching a fly buzz around, and some drunk who they'd really had no patience with to begin with. To further break the guise of menace, the taller stranger that Fletcher had called 'Sinclair' now chose to try and smoke the cheroot, and spat it out, coughing. This broke the silence, and was followed by a bearded, spritely man yelling out:
“What in the he'el is a Mag-mum, anyway?”.
There was going to be trouble.