September 10, 2012
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The snorting legume rode into town, pulled up in front of the saloon, swung down from the saddle, hitched its pony, Old Sour Eyes, to the rail, and clomped through the swinging doors into the bar. All activity ceased. Customers froze in place, staring at the snorting legume. The player piano player stopped playing the player piano. The bartender broke the tension by wiping the bar with his filthy rag and calling out from under his handlebar mustache, “What’ll it be, pod?”

“Hmphh,” snorted the snorting legume, signaling the onset of the ensuing brawl.

The brawl ensued, what with tables overturning, fists flying, bodies arcing over the bar and crashing into various mirrors and destroying them. Bottles were broken over heads. Oddly enough, hats remained firmly in place. Ladies of the evening stood on the stairs conking nearby pates with frying pans. When all lay unconscious in a tumble of twisted limbs with nary a spur jangling,  the snorting legume made its way to the bar, swept aside remnants of broken bottles, and eyed the cowering bartender, causing said bartender to produce an in tact flagon of rotgut and place it with trembling hand in front of the snorting legume.

“Hmphh,” snorted the snorting legume, and it downed the rotgut, exited the saloon, untied Old Sour Eyes, took smoothly to the saddle, and rode off out of town, whistling its soft snorting song.

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