Thanx, man! I was actually surprised to find out the shadows of the fingers are part of the hand bone item–difficult to customize. –I haven’t rapped very often. Hairy helped out with that part.
********
Olga stood out when she applied to the old bindery. Russian accent, punk haircut, biceps bigger than Dave’s–not to mention first female mechanic we ever had. Mike gave her the usual tests, including the mystery gear. She was holding it, looking confused at it, when the greeting card spinner started burying her in those stupid art prints from the Widow Jefferies. He laughed about it and said she wouldn’t last when she didn’t give up on it after a month. Six months later, she figured out it wasn’t ours at all. It wasn’t. It came from an antique meat grinder that Sal’s Deli uses to hold up the corner of their shed roof.
She was so mad! Yelled at Mike in Russian while he stood there stunned for a minute. Then went dead quiet as he held out his hand to shake hers in admiration. He told her then, that no other mechanic had ever figured it out, and that she was ready to work unsupervised. You’ve never seen such a smile!
*OPMC
********
The Pinkerton detective was about to scream. Five of the seven of the old Madsen gang were dead, shot to pieces as they’d tried to gallop out of town with the bank bags. The sixth was in irons, awaiting trial, only because he’d forgotten to load his guns.
WHERE WAS THE YOUNGEST?
Neil Madsen had escaped before. Quick thinker, very dangerous. Somehow, in all the commotion, he’d gotten out of town with TWELVE BAGS OF GOLD. “It’s not like the man’s invisible!” said the detective. “He’s got bright red hair. Bright green eyes. Buck teeth big as your fingernails. He’s got six fingers on his right hand. He’s humpbacked, he walks with a limp, and he can barely lift ONE bag of gold. He can shoot, but he left his guns in the bank. He’s good on a horse, but none have been stolen. Doesn’t ANYBODY have ANY idea where he could’ve gone?”
Little Jimmy raised his hand.
“We’re not in your schoolhouse, boy; spit it out!”
“The photographer had me call a carter to put his cases on the stage. He said he had to get to the next town in a hurry. He was wearing spurs, sir. And then there’s the man in the saloon. He’s pretty drunk.”
“What are you saying, boy?”
“Jimmy! The man in the saloon. He said he started drinkin’ when somebody stole his camera and everything he owned at the point of a big Bowie knife and threw him into a horse trough. Said the sheriff was too busy with the bank bein’ robbed to talk to him.”
The Pinkerton detective spun on his heel, slapped the sheriff right across his face, and ran out of the building. The penny he’d thrown into the air landed at Jimmy’s feet.
*western
