in Utah
April 25th, 2005
GOT NOTHING LEFT.
A novel by AlexMicroson.
Author's Note: My new penname is AlexMicroson (Al-Ex-Mi-crow-sun) (The I in it's short form).
This story takes place right out in the heart of the Old West, only, back then it wasn't so old. As illfortunate as the dirty road I was walking on would come to be, I still remember how baren it was, even when in comparison to the rest of the west. There were a few cactus' that lined the natural gutters, and a few graves also, but other then that, it was a long strip of sand..sand and dirt.
I, the young sheriff of this old domain, was walking across this road, doing my daily jailins', when I saw, coming towards me at full speed, a bright-turquoise carriage flying t'oards me at full speed, kickin' up dust that flew back in odd mushroom shapes, and right into the gaping mouths of passers-by. I had barely time to move, and it was a funny site, grabbing my hat from my side, and walking right out o' there at a runnin' speed. The "boys" as you could call them, were as corrupt as corrupt could possibly get, yellin at the top of them' lungs, wavin their hats round' the air and spittin voul things.
I, the valiant sheriff of the domain, did try to stop they're speeding, but with little sucess, for they were passed the ear of talkin' to.
"Stop! I shouted." and, to my amazement, they did just that. Oh how I regretted it later. However, I'll just tell you the story in correct persons..I'm a lot better at that.
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Chapter 1.
Danged right times.
The sheriff, was slim, his trousers barely stayin his hips, and the gunbelt putting up an honorable effort tryin' too. His trenchcoat was brown, like a rangers, and caked in with mud and grime, but it was cleaved, as if it was cleaned in a hurry.
"Stop!" shouted the Sheriff desperately, after that unfortunate carraige flew by.
The carriage made a full-circle around, and then suddenly and abruptly stopped.
A pause followed, from when you could hear men from China diggin their way to the America's.
The Sheriff, mustering up a voice (for the carriage had suddenly forshadowed a menacing glow), roughly said: "Get out. Now."
The Sheriff was a valiant fellow, if a bit dumb in the head in those days, and so he did not pull out his revolver, or his rifle, even though he had two of each sitting beside his cattle-bag.
Two men, who looked like the richmen of the town, stepped out, their white, clean trenchcoats, if they were to be given a voice, seemed as if they would say: "We are on the backs of respectables who neva' done a days work!"
(More Later)
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