The gun holsters felt light and awkward on his belt. Sparda hadn't been in the "gunslinger" business for very long. Guns never had held a special appeal with him - killing outlaws did, however. He had been doing that for long enough. The cold blue steel he use to carry was far more his style: a nice, well-crafted long sword, tucked away to the side of his hip. He missed his Force Edge. Its weight, its feel, its presence.

He remembered not too long ago when he had entered the American badlands, having arrived in Florida by Spanish ferry. It was a long journey and after a few days of enjoying the nightlife topped with a healthy (or unhealthy for human men) dose of senoritas, he ventured to the American territories of Texas and Arizona. He missed his days of war from his youth, and found the challenge of demon hordes severely lacking. After filling over a hundred contracts and bounties, he now found himself rich, bored, and on the verge of leaving these "new lands."

Turning his gaze to the tables and drunkards behind him, he leered at the participants in the bar. All of them were thoroughly drunk, and hadn't noticed how many drinks Sparda had had - 22 in all. Not one of them looked dangerous, threatening, or the least bit intimidating. It crossed his mind to actually pick a gunfight with one of them, but it would be the very definition of the word unfair.

Finishing off his 23rd shot, Sparda slammed his glass down on the bar and turned back around, getting the attention of one of the patrons. (True, the patron was only a quarter conscious, but the former general had gained his attention, nonetheless.) The drunken man could barely see the gunfighter clad in a long, purple trench coat. he did however notice the snow-white hair, heavy looking boots, and dark presence of the gunfighter. He burped and followed that with a, "Hey, you."

Sparda ignored the man, thinking he was talking to someone else.

The man tilted upwards with a slant, mimicking a stand. "Hey! You! Why you wearing metal boots?"

Sparda took a slow drink of his 26th shot and said low, calm, and menacingly, "Would it shock you to learn I was once a knight? Couldn't bare to do without my boots."

"But where's your sword?" The man asked.

Sparda could tell by his tone he was merely curious and not wanting trouble at all. He thought about staying quiet but he was still a knight, and it would be rude not to answer. "I left it behind in favor of a gun. Wanted to learn how to use one," which was a true statement. Sparda had heard the wild stories of the wild west, figuring on learning the "way-of-the-gun" through self-training. Unfortunately he had come across little challenge with it.

"You, uh, belong to an… order, or something?"

Sparda smiled. "I use to. Lets just say a few of their edicts didn't sit well with me," he said, looking at the empty 27th shot glass. Memories of serving Mundus as his top general circulated in his mind and heart. He had to keep from remembering how many good humans had fallen by his sword during that time, their blood on his hands and conscience. This required 3 more shots - he drank them down quickly, shifting off his stool and stood up.

The drunken man sat back down and tipped a glass to him. "Well, sir knight, I hope that you find a better order here." He nodded with a whisper, "though I highly doubt it."

Sparda heard him but shrugged it off, knowing he was probably right, and very drunk.

Readjusting his holster he felt his revolver with a sigh escaping him, missing the long thick steel of his sword, replaced by a small light piece of metal. If something didn't change soon, he would be heading out, away from this "promise land." Promise of what? He thought to himself; For me, it's a cornucopia of cavalcading cutthroats, murderous marauders, and lawless louts just ripe for the swing of a good sword, or peppering of pellets. For the rest of these people, it's a promise of hardship, hazards, and Hell on Earth. My type of place is not a place for god-fearing folk.

Finishing his thought, Sparda tilted his black hat downward to cover his icy blue eyes. He folded his purple coat around his metal boots, walking towards the batwing, saloon doors.

That was when a stampede of horses passed by outside, their riders hollering with whiskey and bad intentions. The last horse dragged something behind it - something moving. Sparda could tell it was a body. The screams that issued forth a caterwaul of pain and torture. The body rolled and spun like a wild tumbleweed in a dust devil as the horses came to a halt. The riders dismounted, two of them dragging the body towards the bar. Sparda's keen, devilish eyes caught sight of blood and the smell was undeniable.

Exploding through the doors came the riders, dragging the body behind them like a prized kill. The first was a raunchy, dirty, scruffy looking specimen. A gaunt, jagged-tooth degenerate that scratched his chin and spat on the floor. (Sparda already promised himself to put a bullet through the man's head, if only for general purposes.) The other's were shorter than the first, but all of them showed the same disregard for manors and dental hygiene. They also seemed oblivious to the world around them, unlike the first. Even though he was the first one in, he was the last one to sit. After another scratch of his dirty face and a glance around the tavern, he finally took a seat at a table where the rest of his hooligans were.

Shifting his cold gaze from the riders to the body, Sparda focused in on the tied-up man. A black man, looking like he had been dragged from Tulsa to San Antonio. He made an effort to stand up with a whimper of overwhelming pain and agony. Even if one of the riders hadn't kicked him back down, Sparda was sure he would have collapsed of his own accord. He was caked with blood and dirt, lacerations covering his body as blood pooled around him, mixing with the dust. It turned the floorboards beneath him into a soupy mess of obsidian-black mud.

The obvious leader looked around at the bar patrons and asked them, collectively, "Take a look righ' chere at this nigga," his southern accent disappointedly predictable; "You'in don't mind if we hav' a hanin', do ya?"

Everyone in the bar looked down - all except one.

Another big, black spit wad hit the floor as the lead rider wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist, gazing at Sparda. "Sorry, fellar, didn't quite hear ya. Got's ta speak up if'n ya wanna be heard."

Sparda could see all of them going for their weapons. Most had revolvers, two with rifles, the leader carried a double-barrel shotgun. He was ready.

A quick glace at Sparda made the leader comment, "Some fancy duds ya got goin' there."

All of them stood up from their table.

Sparda smiled from under the brim of his hat. His blue eyes hidden by it - just his smile showed. His demonic, evil, malicious smile. "I don't suppose you will give us his crime?"

One of the riders, armed with a long barrel revolver, asked, "Yeah, we will. Bein' a nigger! Born a nigger, die a nigger! Only good un, is a dead un!"

Standing still, like a stone sentinel, Sparda said in a low, callous tone, "Show me the law book that boasts being born upon this Earth is a blight because of a skin blemish?"

"What da fuck are you'n sayin'?" He smacked the closest rider on the arm and asked, casually, "Ya understandin' this crazy bastard?"

"Quiet!" The leader yelled. He looked at Sparda with a cocked gaze and another spit.

From outside came the chinking of spurs. Someone walked slowly, proudly, and brazenly towards the saloon. A shadow rounded the corner and hovered past the windows, entering through the batwing doors dressed in all burgundy. Black boots adorned his feet with clean, silver spurs. Gold buttons ran down his jacket and two guns sat comfortably at his hips with a sawed-off double-barrel shotgun resting right in front. The gun belt was loaded with pistol ammo while two bandoliers ran across his chest, packed with red shotgun shells. Like the bleeding hurt man on the floor, he was black-skinned as well.

This new gunslinger's eyes were locked on the riders as he said in a calm, young voice, "Joshua Colton, been tracking you for a week now. Make a deal witch'ya, you release that colored man you've drug through twenty-five miles of rough bush, and I'll let all of you go."

"And if'n I don't?" The leader asked, already reaching for his shotgun.

"Well, shit, Josh," the black gunslinger said, his voice quickly changing from slightly friendly to dark and mean, "looks like I'm going to have to kill every last one of you bushwhacking, redneck sisterfuckers!"

The first shots fired were from the one's closest to the black gunslinger. Three of them blasted for him, but the dark-skinned warrior was faster than any of them, and more skilled than all of them combined. All they accomplished was destroying two windows behind the burgundy clad, armed black man.

He took out three attackers with six skilled shots from one Schofield, emptying the weapon. He then spun around and removed an Army Colt from his other holster, unleashing six more shots as he moved for cover, succeeding in laying down two more in a bloody show of talent.

He ducked down behind an empty wooden barrel as a bullet storm of lead rained down on him, sending wood chips and dust fuming into the air. The gunslinger was pinned down.

Reprieve came swiftly though for the black shootist in the form of one loud shot. It sounded like a small cannon had gone off, and the silence after was deafening. He eased out from the barrel and saw the entire gang looking at the white-haired man in a stunned silence. Joshua, the tall leader, dropped to the floor with a quarter of his head neatly drilled out, a splash of gray and red brain matter sprayed across the floor, much like his spit beforehand.

Sparda held up his large, smoking six-shooter and leered at the gang, giving them all a good look at his serious, frosty eyes next to his gun. An 1885 Colt Peacemaker with a long barrel and a silver shine, decorated with an ivory handle. "Now," he said, lowering the Peacemaker into its holster, smoke still bellowing from its barrel like fumes from a dragon's nostrils, "if anyone of you ostracized outlaws still wishes to play-out this overtly abysmal lack of aptitude in firearms - stay. But, if a fraction of you filthy, fraudulent malefactors want to continue your callous cadre of crime - go."

From behind the empty whiskey barrel, the black gunslinger said under his breath, reloading both guns, "Poetic son of a bitch, aren't ya?"

One man in the gang, holding a rifle and barely in his twenties, lowered it slowly and looked at the others. He then said with a whimper, "I quit!" He ran out as another in the group scolded him.

Sparda smiled. "Probably the only one of you that understood a word I just said."

Reloaded, cocking both hammers back on his Colt and Schofield, the black gunslinger commented, "That ain't no shit!"

The bar erupted with gunfire. The dark-skinned gunfighter attacked from the back while Sparda pulled his silver Peacemaker along with a dark ebony twin. It was almost exactly like the other, except for the black steel and golden handle. The group was turned into a bleeding, mutilated, bullet-riddled mess.

The black gunslinger spun both his guns back into their holsters and walked towards Sparda. Meanwhile, the former dark knight did the same and took a step towards the burgundy-clad man.

The first thing he had to say about Spardas was, "Boy, I've seen some white sons-a-bitches in my day, but you are a fucking ghost, sir."

Cocking a sideways glance at the ebony warrior, Sparda replied, "Why do you use such language? It doesn't become you at all."

Smiling, shrugging his eyebrows, the black man extended his hand. "Name's Django."

"Django," Sparda said, rolling the name off his tongue. "I like it." He shook Django's hand and courteously said, "Sparda."

"Sparta? Like the Greek nation?"

"Close. Spar-Da."

"Got it." Django looked around and tipped his hat, "Well, Sparda, I've got a bounty to collect."

"A bounty hunter? How very odd for a man of your… tone."

"You saying a negro can't be a bounty hunter?" Django asked, grabbing Joshua by his dead wrist and dragged him across the bar floor.

"Not at all. Just… fortunate."

Pulling Joshua through the batwing doors, hauling him onto his horse, Django looked back at Sparda and said, "It was no ease feat, I can tell you that, Mr. Sparda."

"Just Sparda, please," he corrected. Sparda went on to compliment Django. "I can tell. You seem quite skilled. Your execution of executions is excellent."

Pulling a knife from his boot, Django cut the bloodied man free and asked Sparda, "Are you always this poetic?"

Sparda grinned. "It comes naturally."

"Well," Django huffed, helping the man to his feet; "It's definitely a unique skill around here."

Looking back at the wounded man, Django told him, "There's a doctor down the street not more than fifteen paces from here." He slapped some dollars in his shaking, gnarled hands. "Get some help and then be on your way."

"Doctor?" Sparda asked.

"Where will I go, what will I do?" The man asked.

Django said, "Your free, do as you please."

"Excuse me, doctor?" Sparda asked again.

Django rolled his eyes. "Yeah, doctor, you know, that person that fixes you up when you're bleeding out'ur ass?!"

"Ooh, I don't think you want to send him to that doctor."

"Why not?"

"You see, I'm a hunter too, of sorts. I really don't think he can help him. In fact, I'm pretty sure he'll be destroyed by the doctor in this decadent, diseased, little district."

"Get," Django told the man and sent him on his way. He then spun his knife in Sparda's face, pointing the tip at him. "And you - white men have tried to command me before, some have succeeded, but that was before I learned my way around a whip, a knife, a gun, and plenty of other weaponry a negro-boy like me would never known."

Sparda looked at the knife and couldn't hide his laugh.

Django turned a wicked glare towards Sparda as he spun his knife back into its sheath on his boot. "I know you ain't laughing at me, Saltine."

This made Sparda laugh harder, returning a thin, menacing leer. A leer that made Django rethink his position. The purple-coated gunslinger hissed, "I remember when they were called hardtacks by your ancestors."

"The hell you on about?"

Suddenly a visceral, primal, blood-curdling scream came from down the road. It pierced through the night like a demonic siren, a wail of terror only heard before the end of one's life at the jagged points of a monster's teeth, or the razor-sharp tips of a beast's claws.