And then the door opened. An old man stepped in. Dusty. Crooked. A hat that had seen more wars than the entire Galactic Federation.
He walked up to the bar, leaned on it with tired, sour hands, and said:
“Son… pour me somethin’ to wet this ol’ throat.”
Doce gave him a long look:
weight—maybe 60 kilos,
age—who the hell cares,
smell—old leather and cheap poetry.
“You ain’t from around here, abuelo. That’s plain as day.”
The old man smirked—half his face did. The other half had retired years ago.
“Name’s Butch.
Came outta Red Rodeo… driftin’ through.
Was drivin’ a herd o’ flaggnators.
Figured I’d stop on by…
see this fancy-ass bar y’all keep braggin’ ’bout.
Wet my throat a spell.”
Doce nodded, pulled out a cloudy bottle labeled Drunken Apocalypse.
What he poured could cure you… or kill you—
depended on the mood of the drink.
The old man threw back half the glass in one go.
The crowd gave a low, respectful murmur.
But then…
…something shifted.
The crowd near the door parted on its own.
Like the air itself said: move the fuck aside.
And then he walked in.
The metallic cowboy.
Dusty poncho. Spikes.
Footsteps like sand grinding through time.
On his head—a small cowboy hat.
Child-sized.
But worn with the dignity of a marshal.
Butch barked without even looking:
“Boi—didn’t I tell ya to wait OUTSIDE?!”
The mechanical cowboy froze. Two lamp-eyes flickered.
He took off the hat…
and placed it over his chest—an old sheet-metal panel.
Then he walked to the jukebox,
punched in a track code,
turned toward Sage—Off-Brand Bond—
and only then did the room truly focus on him.
Sage lowered his head and pulled his hat down,
like a dead cowboy in a bad western.
And then…
Soft. Quiet. Clean—
like a blues ghost stepped into the room:
“Ain’t no sweat drippin’ off my back,
Ain’t no stink o’ leather, no boots turnin’ black.
Can’t drink whiskey, can’t taste no rye,
But I’ll wear this hat till the day I die.”
The bar went silent.
Even the ventilation held its breath.
“I ain’t no cowboy, naw, not me,
Can’t ride no bull, can’t climb no tree.
I’m just a hunk o’ steel with a painted grin,
Metalhead in a cowboy’s skin.”
Doce nearly dropped his jaw into the lower compartment.
Blindy started crying—from emotion or alcohol, impossible to tell.
Zeros tilted his head by 1.9 degrees.
For him, that was a full emotional tsunami.
When the metallic cowboy reached
“Y’all drink whiskey, y’all bleed red,
I drink nothin’, oil instead.
But hell, I envy what y’all got,
Ain’t no feelin’ in this metal pot.”
— someone from the crowd roared:
“HEY, METALHEAD! DROP THAT OLD BASTARD!
WE’RE ALL EQUAL HERE, MAN!
COME OVER TO US!”
“HERE WE GOT ROOM FOR DROIDS, MUTANTS, CYBORGS!
FUCK THE OLD MAN!”
The crowd picked it up:
“METALHEAD! METALHEAD! METALHEAD!”
Butch went pale.
He saw it—
one word, and they’d tear him apart.
The metallic cowboy looked at him.
Long.
Slow.
Cold.
Zeros stood up. Walked over.
“Hey. Scrap pile.
Want me to hand you Doce’s shotgun?
Or you gonna end up dead in the dirt—
like a rusted piece of junk full o’ holes,
home to spiders, snakes, and lizards?”
Doce nodded, already pulling the shotgun.
“Smear the old man.
Stay here.
You’ll be more useful than any of these rotting sacks of meat.”
Some laughed.
Some froze.
Some started placing bets.
But…
The metallic cowboy
lifted his small hat,
placed it back on his head—perfectly straight—
like only he knew how.
Turned to Butch. Gave a small nod. And without a single word…
walked to the exit.
Step—Step—Step.
The door closed.
And that was it. Zeros shrugged.
“Piece of shit tin can.”
Blindy wiped his eyes.
“Zeros…
buddy…
maybe he’s just…
a real cowboy?”
Zeros picked up a glass, sniffed it like toxic waste,
and set it back down without drinking.
“Don’t give a fuck,” he muttered, glancing at T-8.0.0.
“He’s just like that dumbass. Useless shit.”