The Gunfighter

    The gunfighter strode into the street, an ominous hush settling over the gathering townspeople in the square, a quadrangle closed off to the prairie by brothels, cathouses, saloons, and of course, the chapel.
    “Townspeople,” the gunfighter exclaimed, “You have gathered here to watch either me, or that guy over there get shot to death in order to resolve a dispute. But I’m afraid that will not be happening today as planned. You see, I just came from Dr. Radner’s, and he diagnosed me with a terrible fever.”
    “No I didn’t,” a voice rose over the bristling crowd. It was Dr. Radner. “No, I have never seen you before in my life.”
    “Well, you see my appearance has been altered a good deal since I saw you. Remember, the guy with the mustache. The big, bushy mustache.”
    “So you shaved your mustache before coming to the gunfight.”
    “Yes.”
    “All the same, I haven’t diagnosed a fever today.”
    The gunfighter scratched his head.
    “Six patients, six cases of syphilis,” Dr. Radner said.
    “Oh yes!” the gunfighter exclaimed. “Syphilis, it was syphilis.”
    The doctor shrugged and took his place back in the crowd, which was bristling more intensely now for fear that there may not be any bloodshed. “Hey,” another voice yelled, “That’s no excuse! Ringo’s got syphilis too!”
    “It’s true,” the other guy said, scratching at his crotch.
    “Yes, but, uh, I have this disorder, too.”
    “What kind of disorder?!” demanded the gunfight fan.
    “Well, you see, my trigger finger sometimes falls off.”
    The townspeople were confused.
    The gunfighter stood forward and bent his index finger back. He then bent the thumb of his left hand at the knuckle, placed it where the rest of his right index finger might be, and glided it back and forth, drawing gasps from the crowd. “So you see, I can’t be expected to fight here today, or anytime. Ever.”
    The crowd booed, and demanded that the fight go on anyway.
    “Look over there!” the brave gunfighter yelled, and ran away to safety.
    But the luck of a gunfighter never remains for long, and the next week, when he died of some combination of syphilis and being shot 14 times, we all wondered, “How does someone’s finger just come off like that?”