A potluck supper of whoop-ass casserole.

First you ride into town. It's twilight one friday, August 14; fall is coming but the sun still bakes your skin to a squinty crisp. You carry the usual - weapons, a Quake-capable computer, trail rations, tequila and rye whiskey. You roll your own smokes. You shoot from the hip. You eat greenhorn hash for breakfast and still have an appetite for lunch.
	The locals don't like the look of tall strangers, and see fit to test your mettle. You don't mind, your mettle always got high marks and a few more notches on the gun belt makes for great extra credit. You settle down behind an agarita bush and pick off tourists with practiced ease. At some point you nod off, numbed by drink and lulled by the increasingly-familiar sounds of gunfire and death.
Rested up and invigorated by the previous night's events, you awaken Saturday ready for more. You grab some cash, reload your iron and head for town.
	Ah, the comaraderie of comrades-in-arms. Saturday is filled with cheering, jeering, and lots of beering; your hard facade breaks into a wry grin as you shift your cigarette to the other side of your mouth, tell of your exploits and stumble to the sheriff's magic lantern show, where you watch the lesser exploits of screen stars.
Life is brief and hard, and hard weekends even briefer. You bandage your arm, holster your guns, water your horse and head back to a less glorious, albiet safer life.
	Of course, there are consequences for those who choose not to participate.