On an old mountain sat an old toad who felt as wise as his beard was long. His wife laughed and exclaimed, “Those are just soap bubbles, you old fool!” So the old toad added more bubbles to his beard and felt more wise.

“Might I trouble you, good sir, in directing me to the nearest saloon?”

The question sounded honest enough to me, even if the sun was barely mounting the horizon. And truth known, I had not one hour prior left just such an establishment. Still, I turned to the voice careful-like, so’s not to stumble and give away my plum decadent level of intoxication. Rather not be robbed on this particular morning. That’d ruin my early afternoon plans of a hangover.

“Man alive, son.” My new speaking partner was naked as a cloudless sky save for the 10-gallon hat transfixed about his nethers by way of clasped hands. I forgave that solitary cloud while thanking the Lord for it all the same. “Shouldn’t you first befit yourself with proper attire?”

In the dim dawnlight, assisted by nearby lamplight, I could see the man had dark smudges along his neck and chest, leading down. There was a hint of conflicting lady’s perfumes in the air. And by the time the origins of those smudges hit my booze-addled mind, I’d bet money on two different shades but it was hard to tell for sure. And I didn’t really want to investigate.

“Just looking for a mouthback of whiskey to start the day,” the all-but naked man said, with a hint of winded voice. “Priorities.”

“How ’bout we put a name on you at least?” I offered.

The man lifted his hat to his head and extended his hand and a good-natured smile.

“Sundance.”

I cringed, but took the hand face on. It’s dangerous times, and when another man offers you a open hand, respect is due. Despite where his hand’s been, you can always wash yours later.

“Robert.”

“Mighty fine name, Robert.”

“Sure ain’t no John or Smith.”

“Amen to that, sir.”

“What kind of name is Sundance? Native?”

Robert replaced his hat upon his pecker–thankful for that, surely I was–before he leaned against a barrel. He looked as comfortable as a pig in mud. I found myself liking this fella.

Shaking his head, he said, “Real name’s Harry, but everyone calls me the Sundance Kid.”

“An’ why’s tha–”

The dull morning air was shattered by the trumpet of a shotgun. A shotgun  as close to comfort as a bull’s horn in your behind. I found my body angled toward the sound, which came from the direction I surmised this “kid” had much too recently departed.

“You in trouble with the law?” I asked.

I heard a laugh behind me and I realized was alone. That ass was running his off up the street. I struggled for a moment, gaining drunken momentum, slow but sure. Had I been a wick slower, the cloud of angry metal bees would have stung me something fierce.

Instead, a few of those angry suckers clipped Sundance right proper in the hindquarters. And as he hobbled about in the morning light, I didn’t wonder why they called him that. It was enough to make a man laugh despite his dire situations.

“Hey!” I called out as we ran into the sun.

“What is it, Robert?” His hat was once again atop his head.

“My friends call me Butch.”