Next Question!

So I've been trying to law low in the American southwest for a bit while all that nonsense with the Viet Cong and the UFC fans and the Indian reservation blows over. I had been camping out in the desert for a week or so, but I was running out of food and water, so I decided to drive my armored-personnel carrier into town and look for money and supplies. And I was really hoping to sell my services to the townfolk as a gunfighter/mercenary and maybe settle a dispute between rival gangs or take on a local railroad barron and his cronies.
But to my dismay I encountered nothing but technology and progress. The horse was replaced by the motor-car, the cell phone had replaced the telegraph etc. The Old American West that I had read so much about as a youth while imprisoned in Crete had not just shrunk, it had disappeared.

Pissed off, I went into a local watering hole that was nothing more than some college bar for young folk, and ordered a couple Long Island Iced-Teas.
"And hold the ice you son of a bitch!" I screamed belligerently at the bartender as he prepared my beverages.
I drank for a bit but was interrupted by a meat-head frat guy and a smarmy middle-aged man. They seemed intrigued by my appearance.

"What are you- in the army?" asked the meat-head.

"Yes, but not the American one." I responded.

"What army then?" prodded the meat-head.

"Well I sort of have my own. But I like it better that way- less rules."

"My name is Matt and I play football for the Trojans. This is my new agent Drew." replied the meat-head, as he introduced me to the smarmy older man.
The meat-head told me his full name was Matt Weiner or Leiner or something and I got a few pictures for the blog of him molesting the local bimbos. Matt muttered to me that he was going to be "the next Kyle Orton," and then walked off. So it was just me and Drew the agent.

"What's that?" I asked, pointing to a line of coke on the bar that the agent was preparing to snort.

"Next question!" snapped the agent.

The agent then swallowed several pills of ecstasy.

"What were those?" I asked.

"Next question!" snapped the agent, as he injected himself with heroine.

"What's in the needle?" I asked.

"Next question!" snapped the agent again.

Then the agent pulled out a Terrell Owens bobble head doll and shoved it up his ass.

"What's that do for you?" I asked, as I calmly began to reach for my .45.

"Next question!" snapped the agent again.

I pulled out my .45 and stuck it in his chest.

"Now you're going to start giving me straight answers here, or I'm going to blow you away. You hear me chief?" I asked.


But before the agent could answer, the Weiner fellow returned and grabbed the agent by the arm and fled the bar. Matt looked back at me in total horror and tried to yell some apologies at me for the conduct of his agent. Incensed, I chased after them into the parking lot. They piled into a pick-up truck and sped off. I quickly reached for my stick grenade, lobbed it at them, and then hit the ground. But nothing happened. It was a bloody dud. Damn Gerry ordinance. Oh well. They got away this time but maybe we'll cross paths again- that's really all you can hope for.