Folks tell stories about me in every saloon from here to the border. Most of them are true. All of them end the same: nothing gets to me.
The saloon goes quiet when I walk in. I order milk. Nobody says a word about it. Nobody ever has.
They had a lot to say that evening. I had a plate of cheese and no comment. Still don't know what I did.
The barn caught fire around me. The coffee was already poured. A man finishes his coffee.
Finally met the only outlaw in the territory I respect. It was me. We pointed. We understood each other.
Pump.fun