Lone Gunman's Wank-Off Standoff

Under the scorching sun, our lonesome gunslinger finds solace in his trusty Bizon, its cold steel a poor substitute for human touch. He grips it tightly, his strokes steady and purposeful, like he's preparing for a duel. His mind fills with salacious images of his enemies, their faces contorted in pleasure, not pain. The desert wind whips around him, its hot breath mimicking the heat of a lover's touch. As he nears the edge, he lets out a primal growl, his body convulsing, his release marking the end of another long, lonely day on the range.

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