Saturday night at the Last Chance Saloon.
Two brothers sat at the bar.
“It’s Friday, Slim,” one said. “You planning on leaving town again?”
“Yup,” said the other, and he finished his beer. “Wanna come with?”
“Can’t. Sheriff says the cliche doesn’t work if Slim and None leave town.”
The bartender put down three beers, setting one down for himself.
“Papa Fat and Momma Not A Fucking Chance sure picked some strange names for y’all,” he said.
“I still don’t understand why they call me Junior,” said Slim.
All three nodded, drank their beers, and waited for the noon stage.