“Pete, we’ve had a murder in town, I’m afraid.”
“Crap. Are you kidding me? Didn’t we just have a murder?”
“‘Bout two weeks ago, I reckon.”
“Yeah. That’s also the reckon I would have done. Shit, okay. And I guess we’re sure there aren’t any babies coming along? Or you can’t convince someone to slide over here from one of these other shit western towns? They’re all the fucking same. Poker, black guy on the piano, whores who actually look pretty put-together for being people that have sex for money and bathe once a quarter. No? Damn it. I’ll get my stuff.”
“Pete, there’s more. They were wondering. Well, the folks downtown were wondering if instead of crossing out the old number and painting in a new one you could just repaint the whole sign…?”
“Wow. Really? You’re going to ask me that right now? A man died. And all of a sudden you want me to dick around with a sign for the next a million hours.”
“I know, I know. But the townsfolk are worried. They think the right kinda people will mosey on by us while the wrong kind’ll think this is a good place to start up trouble.”
“Huh. I’m just a humble sign painter. Not really a believer in graphic design, which I don’t think exists yet so much. So I see what you’re getting at, but christ, that is going to take me all day.”
“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important, Pete.”
“Not to mention, okay, what about when I asked if we could move the sign closer in to town? Why’s it gotta be like ten miles away, in the middle of the desert? What’s the possible point of that? It wouldn’t be so bad if I at least didn’t have to ride the whole goddamn way out there. And you’ve seen my horse. You know she’s blew out.”
“Pete, I’d be much obliged if you’d do this for us.”
“Fuck. Fine. But after this, you tell people that if they plan on shooting someone, they better also plan on driving their horse and their happy ass out to the goddam sign and repainting that shit. Because I’m sick and tired of being the only one responsible for taking care of this crap. I’ve barely shot anybody this year. And do you think they’re paying me for this crap? That asshole making the coffins is getting fat and rich off this shit, meanwhile I’m sweating my balls into little puddles painting a sign just so we know how many idiots live in Dumbsburg.”