Back out to the truck he goes, shamed and reviled and mocked and scorned, the desire of the women and the envy of the men.

He sighs, and removes what passes for his clothing. No room for individuality any more, he thinks, and it took balls to wear angora chaps too.

He slides into his longjohns, the black silk ones that cling to every one of his well toned muscles like a second skin. Then the jeans, old and comfortable from those years in the saddle and the familiar old cotton flannel shirt. A pair of Tony Lama boots, well worn bison hide that fits butter-soft to the contours of his feet. Black leather belt and black leather vest, a black Resistol with a go-to-hell crease and a rattlesnake hatband. He slides out of the truck, reaches behind the seat, and pulls out his brace of faux-ivory handled pistols in their hand-tooled belt and holsters.

He buckles on the gunbelt, checks each shootin' iron. Fully loaded, and two extra tanks of water behind each holster.

Pulls down on his hatbrim, adjusts his mirrored aviator glasses, and saunters back into the Tavern.