Sabata and Sartana threw conspiratorial hooded glances at each other from beneath their respective bolero-style black hats. Almost in competition, they each adjusted their neckwear, then caressed their fob watch and chain as they checked the time, before secreting the timepieces into one of the pockets of their iridescent waistcoats. The ritual continued as each of them fanned a forefinger and thumb across their top lip. Whether this was more an act of moustache preening or of contemplation was difficult to decipher. It was equally difficult to determine who was the dandiest of this arrogant, cocky pair. They seemed so much like a pair of magpies, resplendent as they were with their silver white chests and long black drapes.
Sabata only needed to crack his recently acquired silver-handled cane onto the floorboard for it to set off the domino reaction of death – a finely tuned mechanism of wires and springs that could be relied upon to send but a single bullet towards Django’s heart. He was confident that one bullet was all that he would need, but his alliance with Sartana would clinch Django’s demise for certain.
Sartana sat, as if contemplating a game of chess. All he had to do was nonchantly move his queen to h4 on the board. This ‘fool’s mate’ would tug the almost invisible twine connected to it, which would in turn release the trigger on his specially customised 14 barrelled Derringer, and the frozen-open dead scream of the stuffed grizzly in the corner of the room would bellow one more time.
Django entered the saloon. He seemingly ignored them and took his ‘place’ at the bar, stood before the bottle and glass that were ready and waiting for him. Without turning, he took a swig straight from the bottle, wiped his mouth on the back of his fingerless-gloved hand, and muttered some words as if to the bottle. “Gilbert Roland’s having a garage sale at his place … some nice gear there, waistcoats, bolero hats, moustache wax an’ all.”
Sabata and Sartana threw rival hooded glances at each other. Neither could allow each other to get the prize pickings from the greatest dandy of them all. They spun their eyes back to Django, but too late. Two bullets spat from Django’s gun. Each of the ‘magpies’ emitted a corvid croak of sorts, as they clutched at their individual chests, and fell harmoniously, dead to the floor.
“Poncy fuckin’ cunts” he mumbled, and took another swig.
Will that do?