Hey, on Saturday I actually met Ms. X, the proverbial Darth Vader from my January 13th blog about joining the dark side. I would like to have asked her about that job that was offered (on condition that I not wear a scarf) and whether it had been filled. I would also have liked to have asked her about what the heck she had against my scarf, but Alas, there was no time. The extent of our brief conversation ran like this:

Me: Ms. X, how are you. I haven’t seen you since that last National Day Party.

Ms. X: Oh fine, thanks. I-

Ms. Other: Oh Ms. X, come over here and…

There Ms. X is pulled away by a friend of hers and the conversation is cut short. The End. On asking around I found out that the job actually has been filled, and I have to say I’m disappointed. I was kind of hoping they’d ask me again so that I could have a second chance at that good old-fashioned show-down I’d been wanting with Ms. X. But since it hasn’t happened in real life, I’ve decided that it should at least happen in blogistan. So here, dear blogistanis, is the beginning of a classic spaghetti-western group blog. And remember, it MUST be read with a Western drawl.

A light breeze blew, stirring up the dust in front of the saloon and carrying it down to the stable where my horse stood. Good old Bullet, my trusty steed had carried me this far in my journey, through dry canyons, across roasting deserts, through Desi traffic, and now into Hell’s Teeth. Hell’s Teeth was one of the nicer names of this one-horse town, this out-of-the way den of crime and corruption they called Isloo. And they don’t even have a ice-skating rink.

I sat rocking on the porch of Ma’s General Store, cooling my heels and waiting. Ms.X could stomp all over the Mesa looking for me, but I was gonna be here waiting for her when she came back, and then. Well, then there would be some talking and maybe some fighting and maybe some shooting too, but one of us was going to lose. *queue rousing battle-score type music*

Two-fingers Mac came out of the saloon with his broom in his hand and started sweeping. He looked up at me mid-sweep and froze. He knew what was coming, so he took his broom and hurried back inside. Everyone knew, what with the way Ms. X had been a-talking up her outfit and riding roughshod over the locals, challenging them. And she had a-challenged me, but not afore trying to make me join her crew.

“Sensei,” she said with a chaw of tobacco in her cheek, “I reckon there’s room for a fast gun in my outfit. So long as you cut your allegiance to that other outfit, and stop wearing that there rag on your head. We pay better than ole Iz-laam any day now, don’t we boys.”

I rejected her outright. Told her where her outfit could go and what she could do with her pay. It weren’t pretty. But I wasn’t there to talk pretty, I was there to talk straight and shoot fast.

As I sat on the porch waiting, the bat-wing doors on the saloon opened and the sheriff stepped out. The sheriff, whose name was…


Abez is a 50% white, 50% Pakistani, and 100% Muslim. She is also chronically ill and terminally awesome. She is the ever-lovin Momma of: - Khalid, a special little boy with autism - Iman, a special little girl with especially big hair -Musfira, an especially devious baby Spoiler, Abez is also Zeba Khan on Muslimmatters.org.

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