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Would you like to hear a story? It’s been a while since I’ve told one, so you might have to bear with me. However, I do know a classic, a story about a forsaken fox who lost everything and clawed -or pawed- his way back out of the depths of a lonely hell. Sounds good? Excellent, then its time for the cool and dramatic opening. Sit tight.
*
The gunslinger could never be forgiven.
He strode across the sandy wasteland, the cacti he drudged past giving him a brief respite from the burdening loneliness.
The fox gunslinger’s name was Foxtrot – I know, very on the nose, or snout, rather. He had once been the proud sheriff of the town of Lonestar. Then the Buffalo Brother Bandits had rode into town. Foxtrot was no stranger to bandits; in his 7 year tenure, his trusty pistol had been notched up to high hell and back.
Lonestar had been, in comparison to other towns in the frontier, a bustling display of verdant life; it had a saloon, bank AND a jail. Hell, it might still be as alive as ever but Foxtrot tried to keep that optimistic thought at arm’s length.
Well, why was he no longer a sheriff? I won’t keep you waiting.
*
Like always, his paw started to creep towards his trusty seven shooter before he even knew danger was sweeping over the sandy hills surrounding the town. His silky fingers were drawn, like a magnet, to the seven-shooter on his hip. After his first year of singlehandedly defending from each and every raid, the town’s blacksmith had modified his six gun for him, because why make the last shot count when you can just shoot again? A couple weeks after, the town was attacked by the Seven Snake Sisters and ever since he had kept the pistol tighter on his hip than he might a mewling kit. As the pistol tugged his paw upwards, the sand on the nearest western hill started vibrating with anticipation. Soon, the sand was thrown up into the air, forming a dust cloud as the Buffalo Brother Bandits rode over the hill.
Rode might be the wrong word. They didn’t ride anything per say, but rather they themselves were the ones who rode over the hill. The roving gang of bandits walking over the hill doesn’t sound quite right, does it? You’ll have to excuse an old man for being a bit fabulistically rusty.

Before they could even catch sight of the town’s sheriff, the pistol on his hip, shaking in anticipation, was raised up as if it were signalling a race’s start.

And with a crack, a whoosh and the thud of a body in the sand, the race began. Droves of bandits flooded down like a tsunami, as if the sandy hill they summited were the gentle dunes of a beach rather than the expanse of the desert.

Like a well-practiced musician, Foxtrot unleashed his symphony, ringing like a harmony through the cacophony of the ensuing battle.

With practiced precision, the second and third bullets found their marks in quick succession. The first recipient was a short, stocky bandit wielding an aptly chosen buffalo rifle. The third bullet eagerly shot towards a hulking brute that was quickly buried in the sand, mouth agape. The look of surprise as the bullet went straight through his forehead was to be permanently etched on the rest of said face.

Eventually, the bandits retaliated with their own storm of lead that rang out discordantly across the town. Foxtrot might’ve been able to shoot faster and quicker than the thugs, but not faster nor quicker than the remaining eighteen of them at once.
While he might not have had a proper classical education, Foxtrot was good with numbers. He worked out that to rid the town of every bandit, he would need exactly two cylinders plus his remaining four bullets, resulting in only two reloads. The reloading was his least favourite part – because he had to stop shooting.

He marveled at this fortunate efficiency as he swiftly retreated to cover. He darted to a stack of wooden crates by the building opposite the saloon. This was actually very bad cover, any old aunt’s high caliber rifle could rip straight through the wooden carapace and through the crate’s contents, and then straight through his own contents. However, he knew this, and he knew that the bandits would not be sharp enough to even consider that he could still be shot when he was out of their view. This was a theory that was born when he had hid his slender frame behind a single lamp post and remained unseen by bug-eyed Greckis and his Gecko Gang. This theory was later confirmed when he tested it out to great efficacy against Oakley the… well you can guess what kind of animal he was. Foxtrot didn’t even have to lift a finger, he just stayed hidden until Oakley walked right into the town jail in a wandering stupor of confusion.

From behind the crate, Foxtrot patiently watched the reflection of the swinging saloon’s metal nameplate. Centering his pistol onto the middle of the Holy Mose’s ‘O’ and waiting until a horned head was framed by the letter, he let fly the fourth bullet which zipped into the sign and ricocheted into the portrait’s subject, spraying his paint across the sandy canvas.
Before the fifth bullet could grow jealous, it too was ejected at a rapid velocity towards a less than eager bandit who had made the unwise decision to stalk around the far corner of the saloon. The bandit thought that he probably wouldn’t make that mistake again. Well that’s what I would’ve thought if I were him. He was dead, and probably not thinking – not much of a difference to before.

The penultimate bullet seemed to vibrate in its chamber, fighting against its leash like an over zealous dog. It was unleashed, and jolted itself out of the barrel toward an approaching bandit at unparalleled speed. It sped towards the face of the buffalo who stood paralyzed in fear and… went straight past him? Foxtrot had missed? How? He never missed, at least not when he was this sober, or before he was tired and had been well bulleted a few times himself. He quickly remedied his mistake with the final bullet of his seven shooter. He really didn’t know why most people stuck to six.

He began to reload, as if feeding his gun after a hard days work. After what seemed to him like weeks of gunslinging sobriety, and to the encroaching bandits like 7 seconds, he begun the volley of a herd of bullets. A sound like snapping reigns reverberated across the town, as the freshly reloaded cylinder’s debut bullet raced towards a bandit. Before he could get back behind cover, another bandit let loose a round from their high-powered rifle, catching the peeking gunslinger and singeing the fur on his face. Now it was getting interesting.
Crack.
Five bullets shot.
Thirteen bandits unshot.
To make it a clean dozen, Foxtrot readied the next bullet, but felt it hesitating in the barrel. He ignored this rising feeling and set it loose like a charging stallion. It begrudgingly picked up speed and eventually shot out the barrel towards an ugly looking bandit with a squashed nose and scraggly beard. The bullet veered in disgust, hitting an signpost and landing short of its target. What? He had missed?
Twice?
It must be the gun. Maybe it wasn’t so reliable after all. Or the bullets. Yes, it must be the bullets, maybe he had been sold wet powder? That would explain their timidity, yes, that must be it. After he had had dealt with the Brothers he would find the powdersmith that had sold him inferior goods and teach him a lesson in gunslinger economics. Better a happy customer than an angry one. Especially when you were dealing in powder.
Before he had a moment to gather his thoughts, the two brothers, Bill and William, appeared from behind a building and started towards him. With ever-reliant speed, Foxtrot aimed at the larger brother who now stood in the open – a clean shot. He felt nothing from this bullet – no eager excitement, nor this new feeling of hesitation. The bullet was just a cold piece of metal, a tool. Split seconds before he shot he realigned the bullets trajectory towards Bill.

But no – this was after the bullet shot.

Foxtrot watched in horror as the bullet missed – he missed. For the first time in his life the sheriff had missed an easy shot, not due to faulty powder nor hesitant bullets but because of his lack of skill, something he had prided himself in over the years.

He froze in horror as both brothers raised their weapons towards him and shot. And then he ran, he ran faster than ever before, he ran as fast as a bullet – but not these bullets. The pair of bullets met at his prized tail to tear a gaping hole clean through, staining the orange fur red.
Foxtrot ran from his protectorate with his tail between his legs, as if it were hiding in fear and shame.

It had been seven months since the final events of Lonestar, and seven months since Foxtrot had started wanderin’. This was different to wandering. Those who wandered travelled aimlessly and itinerantly; Foxtrot had a purpose to his wanderin’.
To get away.

And in this, he was actually successful. Only weeks into his wanderin’ he had gotten well and truly lost. He must not have been nearly as well travelled as he had once thought.
He had journeyed, town to town, doing odd jobs and farmhand work. At one town he stared at a bounty poster until the residents starting looking a bit too closely at the strange fox for his liking. He had felt no itch in his holster, so he walked away.

He wasn’t even as good a farmhand as he used to be when he was a boy. What use did a gunslinger have for the skills of a farmer? Ironic, that now he wondered what good being able to twirl a pistol around did him in a field. The money he earned from gruesomely toiling in field just about paid for food, and sometimes a barn roof to sleep under.

And so, he travelled, staying just long enough to work, eat, sleep and drink himself into a stupor, never leaving enough for a medic’s visit, leaving his ailing tail in disrepair, like a neglectful father. At least that was something he was still good at, drinking, picking it up like he had never left it back at the start of his Lonestar tenure.

After all, being banned from a town’s saloon was no big deal when there was another a mere six days trudge away.
On the day exactly seven months after his ‘exit’ he encountered a turtle and a sandstorm. He didn’t know any of this of course, it wasn’t like he was counting his days away from home, and he had never met a turtle before. He certainly didn’t see the sandstorm coming. Nor what it led him to.

The turtle was watching Foxtrot’s measured approach and was leaning carefree on a cactus, shell pressed to its thorns, who were bitter that they had been bested.

“Stop staring and begone with you, tortoise,” said Foxtrot as he came up on the turtle.

“I’m not a tortoise, I’m a turtle. Also, I am a figment of your imagination, a hallucination, a mirage. Quite perplexing, yes?” said the turtle.

“What?”

“A turtle. Don’t worry, I won’t take offense, we are often mistaken for those old wise guys, aren’t we?” said the turtle.
“No, never mind that. You are part of my mind? I truly have lost it then.”

“Aha! No, I am merely joking, but you desert lot sure are eager to except that you’ve gone off the deep end of the trench. No, I am not imaginary, but I am an amphibian, if you are aware?”

“A what?”

“You sure do ‘what?’ a lot, don’t you?” said the turtle.

“Are you going to give me some life changing wisdom or not?”

“That would be tortoises again. Our whole shtick is this kind of cool, suave thing, not being wise. You understand, yes?”
Before Foxtrot could respond, sand blew across his boot. This was nothing unusual in the desert, but what was unusual was the entire uprooted cactus that blew past moments later as the wind shrieked a ghastly moan.
“Well thats my cue, I’ll be heading to the nearest town. If you are fond of shelter you might want to follow me?” said the turtle as it set off to the North East.

Foxtrot was, in fact, fond of shelter during even the clearest of days, so he set off in the direction the turtle had gone. Interesting, even though he had left seconds ago, the turtle was far gone from Foxtrot’s vision. Admittedly, the rapidly ensuing sandstorm did reduce visibility, but at this time it hadn’t picked up to the point of mole-nearsightedness just yet.

Foxtrot was a bit disoriented in the twofold assault of wind and sand, but he was sure that the turtle had not started to the South, where he knew the closest town was. Maybe the mysterious creature knew of an unmapped settlement?

Foxtrot walked, holding his hat onto his wind-tussled head with his paw, and trusted the turtle knowledge. It wasn’t like he would have much like by himself, a desert amidst a sandstorm was not the most navigable of places.

He didn’t see the building until it was a very shoddy stone’s throw away. It looked abandoned, so he decided to seek shelter in there. Even if it wasn’t, worst come to worst, he could shoot any territorial inhabitants. He could not shoot a sandstorm, not effectively at least.

The building seemed derelict. The door was just held on by a death grip on its frame, which barely strung together a rectangle. It was the kind of wear that raised Foxtrot’s suspicions, the kind of disrepair that formed from unmaintained use rather than neglect and abandonment. This was a house, and it was inhabited.

At that moment, the aforementioned inhabitant stepped into the room. Their face formed into an expression of fear and surprise. A second later, it morphed further into surprise, fear being washed away with… joy?

“Foxtrot?” questioned the inhabitant, not entirely sure of their greeting.
Now Foxtrot was the one left in surprise. He knew he had been a famous sheriff, infamous if you leaned more towards the scoundrel persuasion, but surely he wasn’t known in a town umpteen miles from home? But now, yet again, it was Foxtrot’s turn to have his shocked expression compounded. The inhabitant didn’t just know Foxtrot, he knew her.

“It is you!” said Penelope, Lonestar’s seamstress, and one of the first who openly welcomed Foxtrot into the town seven years ago.

“You’re a long way from home Penelope,” remarked the wandering fox.

“I’d say I’m as close to home as I could be. Can’t be much closer than in it,” she said with a playful smile, laced with a hint of confusion. It seemed she wasn’t entirely sure if he was playing games with her, even if this was against his nature.
This lit a spark of realization in Foxtrot and he looked around the room they were in. Soon, the spark roared into a bonfire. He knew this room, he had been here before. In Penelope’s room. In Lonestar.

“Oh I am so pleased you came back, I just knew you would,” said Penelope with visual relief on her face. “Some thought you wouldn’t, but I knew you would. You just have to get rid of these bandits. Every month they come back and take our crop and produce. I haven’t sewed anything but ponchos in 5 months.”

“I can’t Penelope, they bested me. I failed,” said Foxtrot.

“You only failed when you left, Foxtrot.”
*
The sand on the nearest western hill shook with anticipation. Unlike the riding bandits, it was privy to the rematch that was about to take place. Foxtrot’s silky fingers took their place on the seven shooter that had remained attached to his side for seven months.

The hill had kept the secret. The bandits did not anticipate the sheriff’s return.

For the first seven bandits, each fell quicker than the last, like a cascade of dominoes. As they had expected little resistance this group was smaller, they had brought about sixteen. Sixteen bulls to the slaughter.

The eighth did not fall quicker than the seventh, but it fell harder. In its death throes, it tried to grab at a stack of barrels which fell on top of the dying, flailing bull. The other barrels, now bloodied, rolled down the street like morose tumbleweed.

Another bandit tried to use the remaining barrel as cover, but number nine fell just the same. Number ten, who was sneaking up on Foxtrot’s flank, was ratted out by a barrel rolling over his foot, causing him to yelp in pain. The bullet was more painful.
The eleventh was where it started to go wrong. Foxtrot missed.
The wind did not sway his bullet, the powder was not faulty. He missed of his own accord. And, just like the eleventh bandit, this was inconsequential because seconds later a replacement bullet was issued towards number eleven, as if the first’s warranty had been recalled. Eleven down. Five left.

The next two were huddled together, scared. They still had the numbers advantage, but they were beginning to realize two on one was not a fair fight – for them. Their terrified huddling just made it all the quicker for Foxtrot. The first shot flew past them, missing by a hair and inducing even more terror. Almost as if to compensate for the missed shot, the next cut clean through both bandits that stood in its trajectory.

The fourteenth bandit’s death is not even worth telling you. He died and the important part is that were only two left.
The Buffalo Brothers stood, surveying the graveyard before them. Buffalo William was the first to act when he unleashed a volley of metal and smoke towards Foxtrot.

But Foxtrot couldn’t die, he was Lonestar’s last hope. So, he fled and the saloon sheltered him. The saloon wasn’t empty, most had evacuated to the far side of town but the eccentric owner, a long-tailed chameleon, was still behind the bar, albeit scared.
Buffalo William stalked Foxtrot into the saloon while the other brother just waited on the hill, knowing that he needn’t intervene. His men may have been taken out, but he and his brother had been in the gunslinging game since calves and they were a different calibre of skill.

The saloon doors swung open as the Brother stepped in. The cowering but defiant owner lobbed a glass towards the bull and seizing this opportunity, Foxtrot came around the corner, firing at the bull. The first shot missed, flying through the window. The second missed the bull but hit the glass shattering it into a hundred pieces that flew into the bandit’s face. This meant he had no time to retaliate before the third hit its target. Before the swinging saloon doors had come to a rest, the bull was dead.
Buffalo Bull watched his brother exit the saloon – except it was not his brother. The she sheriff was not dead? There was no interaction between the two past this initial surprise. They stared and they drew and they shot and the bullets raced towards their recipients.

Buffalo Bull fell with a cold, metal bullet in his cold heart. But the bandit’s own bullet continued on, straight towards Foxtrot. It bore a path right through his flesh and fur, right through his tail, right through… the hole that had not yet healed.

The town was rid of its bandit infestation. It was safe again, and better than that, it had its sheriff. It would remain safe for decades to come.

Lonestar’s next protector will need to be better than its last, so, dear deputy, learn from my mistakes and do not forget my tale, lest yours be shot off too.

Percy checked his watch. He was running late, and on the worst day possible. Today was his performance review at work, and he was all but certain he was finally getting the promotion he had worked like a pig in a suit for. He had put in countless hours at the office, going above and beyond, all so he could now reap the rewards he so painstakingly sowed.

This was going to be his day. He had woken up, excited for work; today was the first time in months that he didn’t have to stay his hand from his alarm clock’s alluring snooze button.

Once he had gotten the promotion – and the raise – he was going to buy his wife a dishwasher, one of the fancy German ones. He loved her very dearly, but they had hit a bit of a rough patch the past few months. Especially yesterday, when she had gotten overly frustrated at him for just leaving a few of his dishes in the sink. And so, like the good husband he was, he would lighten her workload in any way possible.

However, if he was late, he certainly wouldn’t be getting his promotion, and thus his raise – and thus no dishwasher. Certainly not a fancy, German one. And from the looks of it (his watch) he might miss the performance review entirely.
The station’s huge clock, suspended from the ceiling, now seemed to be mocking him, its ticks and its tocks reverberated through his brain like a dial gone haywire.

Eventually, a train creaked into the station. It was an older model that looked like black smoke might come billowing out of its blastpipe at any moment. A faded sign on the side managed to bashfully whisper its name: “Mori Express”.

Ah.

This was the least express Express that there could be. Percy knew about this train, and he always tried to avoid it, for good reason. It always seemed to turn up to stations late and never ran on time. In fact, it was meant to arrive the same time Percy’s train left. 15 minutes ago.

But as Percy was late, and so was this train, he thought maybe this was a sign from some greater beings like God, or maybe even the station master. They must’ve wanted him to get to work on time. He was definitely getting that promotion!

So he stepped on. One foot. Hesitation. Then the other.

Percy had always thought whoever said ‘don’t judge a book by its cover’ wasn’t nearly as wise as everyone pretended, and the train’s interior confirmed this. The inside was basically the same as the exterior: beaten up; but not deteriorating, old; but not ancient. It also had a bit of a smell, although not necessarily a bad one. Rather, it reminded Peter of his grandma’s house and her aging loungers, whom he used to visit fairly frequently – before work got so busy of course.
He walked down the velvety carpeted aisle and found a seat almost immediately. However, as he went to sit, he stopped himself and proceeded to the next seat along. The train and its seats wasn’t messy per say, it was more like a house that had been well and thoroughly lived in.

Almost in time with him sitting down, the train sighed to a start and Percy responded likewise. He was finally on a train and would manage to get to work and get that promotion.
He pictured how ecstatic his wife would be when he got her that dishwasher. Maybe, if he was lucky, she might even ponder giving him a kiss.

Percy wasn’t sat at a window; this train didn’t seem to have windows at every seat, instead it just had one larger window further up the carriage that would have spanned across several seats – had there been any there. Percy languished the lack of efficiency that this train presented. Who would waste their valuable time designing something like this?

But it wouldn’t help him to further worry, so he opened up his briefcase and got to work.

Like usual, his work sucked away the time, like light into a black hole. He peered across the carriage to see the sun rising; he was now finally on time and the train was on track to get him to work.

Hisssss.
Screeeeeckkk.
Calunkk.

The train stopped.

Percy began catastrophizing as soon as it came to a halt, but tried to steer his mind away. Surely there was just something on the track that would quickly be cleared? So, he sat, put his head down and got back to work. He had always been a bit passive, in the sort of way where he felt uncomfortable asking for what he actually wanted and then was frustrated at how unwilling others were to meet his wants. So, he sat there and let his patience simmer at a high heat until he couldn’t anymore. When his frustration had started bubbling over the sides of his brain (about 8 seconds later) he stood up and started his search for a train official to give his fist a good shake at.

As he stood up and started down the carriage on his conquest, something caught his eye, well, actually nothing caught his eye.
What had once been rows and rows of commuters had become a desert devoid of life. Looking up the carriage, he saw a mass of people crowding the window. The crowd wasn’t pushing or shoving, but everyone seemed to be in their own world, completely but politely ignoring others around them.

Percy soon began to realize what was happening. Something must be blocking the tracks, and everyone was finding out for themselves what it was. He knew how enthralling a disaster could be.

But this was something that didn’t capture the eyes like a car crash might, it was something that captured the heart – and soul, if you wanted to be a bit pretentious.

As Percy came to the window, the crowd seemed to part for him, seemingly recognizing his shock at the situation, as if it was something they didn’t share. Almost as if this wasn’t their first journey on the Mori Express where it had broken down.
What awaited him was a breathtaking scene. On the other side of the window, as if it were a wizard’s portal, lay a painting of mountains, trees and sky. All harmoniously connected by a river sweeping through the lush greenery that inhabited the gentle, sleepy hills. The mountains boldly stood guard over the landscape while the sun and sky nurtured and watched their children down below.

Near the edge of the forest’s tree line, three fawns played in the sun’s warming embrace. The two largest trotted around each other, nuzzling their noses when they came close, while the youngest and smallest zealously sprang around them.
They played near the river that swept through the landscape, as if it were the one swimming through the ocean of greenery. It lazily meandered its way past the hills that were dozing off, following the easiest path until it could get on with its journey.

A small family, consisting of a baker’s dozen rabbits, watched the baby deer play and seemed to contemplate if their inclusion in the games would be appropriate. What must’ve been the most foolhardy – or just foolish – of the rabbits hopped towards the games. The young trailblazer was soon followed by the rest, with the parents sharing an endearing look before following suit.

The spectating Fox let them have their fun for today and slinked back to its earthly burrow, entering gently and deliberately, as to not besmirch his prized, pristine coat of silky, orange fur.
However, the Fox was not the only onlooker; a large Frog and old Toad relaxed on a mossy rock near the river’s bank and discussed the day’s events. To better lounge, they slowly and lazily spread themselves across the capacious rock as if they were sunbathing. They wouldn’t be doing any hopping today.

Further upstream, away from all the more timid natured animals, – if you squinted – there was a great grizzly bear that plonked itself down at the river edge. The Bear sat there, solitary but not lonely, and he greedily slonked up the clear, cool water that glistened and sparkled in the sunlight.

At a tauntingly close distance, a run of salmon pranced in the sparkling water as if they were a group of newlyweds dancing under the stars, leaving the Bear with a hint of vexation on his visage. One particular individual managed a monumental leap into the air, soaring four (point six) times her length and splashing water around, getting the river all wet and soggy in the process.

Her outstanding performance was judged a huge success by the swooping Osprey that deemed her a worthy meal.

And then, like a filament bulb flickering into a steady light, the train started moving again, creaking and groaning as if its back ached. Before he could register, the scene before Percy had evaporated and the world began flying by him again. He had no time to bid his farewells to the playful families nor the prideful fox and dancing salmon. They were simply gone from his view, but not his mind.

Percy missed work that day. He called in sick and took the Mori Express all the way back home. As his slow, leisurely journey came to its end and the train doors juddered open, he started running. Sprinting and towing his briefcase behind him, as it couldn’t keep up, he ran all the way back home and straight into his wife’s arms. He stayed there for a bit, just feeling everything he felt: her skin on his; and her soft, fluffy jersey rubbing against his smooth, cotton blend suit. He focused on the tingle that ran through his left arm and up to his neck like a warm ocean current.

And then, without even having bought her a dishwasher, she kissed him.