In the wild west men had a special relationship with their handguns. They were strapped to their leg, always loaded, and ready for action. When a stranger moseyed into town it was evident you had a long barrel that meant business. Plugging that city slicker full of lead meant business was good. As a reward a visit to the local cathouse was in order. You could say the six shooter was an extension of the penis. It was always ready to be pulled out, aimed, and fired. Occasionally it failed to fire, (projectile dysfunction) or misfired causing embarrassment, (premature trigger syndrome). Far too many times it's accuracy was off causing the little lady to let out a shriek. After being spent it was wiped, cleaned, and returned to it's holster. Like a campfire in the cool evening happiness is a warm gun.
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