The boy must be hiding
around here somewhere. What better place to hide than in an old horse
cart? You head in that direction, slowly so as to watch out for any sort
of magical horse leavings. Satisfied that you won't be getting any
excrement on your shoes, you peer over the edge of the cart, fully
expecting to find the boy huddled there. Not so. The only thing in the
wagon is an old feed bag. You reach inside the bag, expecting to grab
the kid by the hair, but instead you find only a rabbit, which you
remove from the hat with an accompanying, "tadaa!"
You're an even better magician than you thought, however, because the
magic trick you just performed had the added bonus of summoning
legendary western film star, John Wayne. That's amazing! You thought he
was dead… and in color. Uh oh, looks like he's got… whatever it is that
Shatner had, and whatever it is that Shatner had is something that you
don't want to catch yourself. The last thing you need right now is to be
younger, colorless, and a little gay. Especially not with John Wayne
nearby. Why, he'd probably take a bite out of your arm if you tried to
sidle on up near him.
The monochrome cowboy breaks the long silence by telling you the story
of the wagon:
"Partner, I'm afraid
we got us a little problem here: seems my horse up'n ran off while I was
a'tying my shoe. ‘Course, I wear boots, so when the horse told me that
my shoe was untied, I was kinda skeptical, but I gave him the benefit of
the doubt ‘cause horses don't have shoes with laces. But I'm getting'
ahead of myself. Bottom line is my chuckwagon needs a tow to the nearest
town. You wanna help your fellow man?"
You really don't have time for this. Before you can politely decline,
you notice something gleaming about waist-level on John Wayne. Despite
his own decolorization, his guns have retained their original hues. And
they're pointed right at you. Looks like you're taking a little detour.
You haul the cart while John Wayne sits in it on the lookout for "injuns."
After about ten miles, you get a little annoyed because he promised to
swap turns with you at the five mile mark, but when you ask, he pretends
not to hear you. As you continue plodding along, grumbling to yourself,
you place your foot in a rut in the path and twist your ankle. You drop
the cart and collapse, trying to massage the pain out of your swollen
ankle. On the bright side, maybe this will finally get you a break. Such
optimism is short-lived, however, as John Wayne sighs and draws his gun.
You plead with him, saying that your injury is only temporary, but he
simply quips, "they shoot horses, don't they?" You take offense to being
likened to a horse, but you take even greater offense to the bullet in
your skull.
