The coyote with no accomplices

Men who wear braces without a shirt bring recognition to their suspenders. However when they wear a matching scarf there is an overkill of appurtenances on their body. Roughly speaking, too much paraphernalia is not pleasing on the eye. Moderation of accompaniments is the key to being identified and remembered.

As a plain dresser I looked for a furnishing that would most complement my temperament. Both a monocle and a pince-nez were looked at and then discarded as I have eyes that can see in the dark. A walking stick would land me in the jail as up here it would be regarded as a weapon. I flirted with putting Violet in my lapel but she wouldn’t let me.

Running out of appropriate apparatus that fits my character I plumped for the battered brown hat and poncho. I got the feeling I had broken my theory of moderation especially as unshaven I was sporting three days worth of stubble on my face. Nonetheless I went out to confront the world.

Where I encountered the good, the bad and the ugly. A few out of tune whistlers assaulted my ears with spaghetti western refrains. EOOW-EOOW-OW-AAA, EW-OH-AW. EOOW-EOOW-OW-AAHH. Others quipped wits like whips.

“There’s a man with no name.”

“Are you gonna pull those pistols or whistle Dixie?” (From The Outlaw JW)

“A last request, gringo.” (?)

The worst part was passing the women’s drama class on High Street. A fistful of marauding female admirers pulled me every which way but loose as they vied for autographs and photographs. They truly believed I was old Clint himself. And therein lies the rub. Old Clint must be about one hundred and one years old.

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