I sat at the dusty bar, drinking what passed for whiskey, here. The squealing of the swinging doors announced his entrance. It was a Canid, wooly eyed and furious. The mongrel marched up the bar, his spurs clicking with every measured step. He dropped his hands on the counter. They were bandaged and bloody, the wounds still angry.
“What do you want?” the bartender asked.
The Canid leaned close and said, “I’m looking for the man that shot my pa..”
BOOM! The shot rang from my hand-cannon as the Canid dropped dead.
“I hate puns,” I said finishing my drink.