The main event, tonight at Arena Los Senderos. Jefe defends his title against the underdog: the Conejo Kid. Seniors get in free. Kids are half priced. Buckets of beer are ten pesos till we sell out.
When you’re lost in the Galactic West, ridin’ a horse named Jupiter in the asteroid belt, a laserproof sidekick is all you need to stay on the straight and narrow. Fair warning.
Look, ‘possums might not win any beauty pageants, but they’ve got one helluva survival instinct—kinda like your uncle who somehow keeps getting free refills in that same styrofoam cup at the corner store.
It ain’t majestic, it ain’t graceful, and it definitely ain’t for good eatin’—but you can’t look at one without crackin’ a grin. Just a lil’ round fella standin’ around, judgin’ the world, and lookin’ mildly concerned about everything.
The Stranger, Bill Munny, Joe, Blondie, Rowdy Yates. None of those cowboys ever cried, don’t care what you’ve seen. They just got something in their eye!
A skull grins beneath an ‘ol Stetson brim, Flames lick his helmet blue, defying death's whim, With hollow eyes he stares, a cowboy to the bone, Ridin' through eternity.
Sometimes you plan it, but most nights it just sneaks up on ya. Next thing you know, you’re sitting at a Waffle House at 3am drinkin’ cheap black coffee wonderin’ where the night went. Our best guess? You got a little rowdy, amigo.
Rode hard into a typhoon for several days. Couldn’t see five feet in front of our faces, but we drove the herd till we found some new country to pasture ‘em in.
