Who am I? I’m the guy who sits in the bar all day and waits for some tall dark and handsome hero to come along, so that I can offer some guidance with my tootle-lootin dialect. I’m the booter-tooter man. At least that’s what all the fellers down here at the bar in Tomaloke, New Mexico call me. A real ham is what I am.
Yessir, you would know me by my short stature, graying hair and missing jomper-chompers. When anyone of interest rides into town they usually come plop their hind-legs about four seats down from me at the bar. This is the perfect distance for me to look over with my glass eyes and ask them what in the hell a stranger is doing in these parts.
These heroes turn to me and usually say something witty (one just threw up on himself), then call me “old-timer” and take a drink from their whiskey. Now this really tickles something inside of me (not sure if it’s sexual or not). I tell them about all the kidnappings of pretty girls that been happenin round the town lately. Or the pass just out of town where old five-legged Sam uses his five legs to rob you of your valuables. Or any sorts of bruh-haha (if you don’t know what that means you can go on and piss up your plumpie).
These stories aren’t true, I just love tellin em’. I’m just an old coot who plays his part in something greater than me. These strangers usually get in a real fuss about these kidnapped girls and start riding off into the nearest sunset. But never in the sunset that leads to five-legged Sam. Nope seems like every one of these damn heroes wants to go rescue some fair maiden. I just don’t get it. Five legged Sam is a real problem around these parts accounting of his seven appendages, but none of these strong-jawed strangers will get within a mile of him.