It was a nice, sunlit day in the town. The birds were chirping, the sewer-slop took that much longer to start stinking, and the wooden statue of some Plains Indian chief was seen to be smiling (perhaps because he been liberated from the cigar). That is not to say that this nice, sunlit day was in any way superior to a gloomy, cloudy day -- or to say that a gloomy, cloudy day is superior to any other kind of day. And that is not to say that day is preferable to night...
A breeze of nonsuperior quality came down from the mountains -- which aren't superior to valleys, and everyone was in such a pleasant mood because the execution of that murderous psychopath serial killer had revealed the admirable qualities -- duty, law-abidingness, and guilt for upholding that law and duty -- in Dr. Quinn's son as he pulled the lever that sent the condemned man hanging.
The fact that he felt totally can't-eat-food-guilty about it made the townspeople rejoice in the fact he discovered for himself that execution isn't right, even though they had already tried to lynch him illegally in the middle of the night, even after the man had been sentenced to death.
Of course, as had been revealed, the murderous psychopath serial killer had every right to live -- and because he had suffered such an unpleasant childhood and lacked a loving family, all of his guilt had vanished and all he really deserved was a loving pat on the hand -- never mind the fact that he would just as soon chop off the hand that lovingly patted him.
But the day suddenly turned dark, not to say that dark is any more superior to light, or that light is superior to dark. It darkened because a grime-enhanced imperialist Army scout rode into town on a maltreated equine-unpaid-transportation-provider.
He wore a soil-enhanced canvas trenchcoat and hung a rifle (oh that tool of imperialist aggressors!) at his side from the strap on his shoulder. With a scowl that could only indicate a goodness-deficient childhood or an enlightened lack of prejudice for cavities, he entered a distribution outlet for mind- and reflex-altering beverages. He callously removed an age- and mind-alteration- enhanced man from the seat he had every right to occupy, yelling in a loud voice -- which he had every right to do, "Give me a whiskey! I need something to get me ready for that next raid -- I'm ridding you all of that bunch of Indians!" There was a loud cheer, which then hushed as Dr. Quinn entered the establishment.
Now that their universal Jiminy [deleted in order that other insects might not lose their self-esteem] was here, everyone slipped notes to the bartender offering to buy that man several bottles of fine sour mash in order to show their solidarity -- though of course there was nothing inherently wrong with bad sour mash, or that there is anything undesirable about badness. Because they were feeling good that they felt guilty about it, they donated their spare pennies to the "Teach Indian children backgammon after forcibly kidnapping them from their homes and families" project led by Dr. Quinn's well- meaning youngest son. Kern, of course, was very oblivious to all this as he assaulted his poor liver with a straight dose of sour mash.
"I would have you know that this is very wrong!" exclaimed Dr. Quinn. "The Native Americans are our friends! They have provided cures to everything from cancer to strokes -- if only the peer-reviewed professional medical societies would lift their 'scientific method' from the screening process and allow subjective and relative observations -- and allow for the fact that disbelievers won't make these miracles work! They have given us great wisdom and knowledge, from the way to become harmonious with Mother Earth to the reason that Duncan MacLeod can easily decapitate you with a short-bladed, century-age-enhanced spear that wouldn't cut through a slab of beef -- though it should be commended for its efforts, of course!"
Kern glared at her, but her self-esteem shone through, and she didn't feel squashed in any way. "You're a 'squaw lady' aren't you? Just like that Duncan MacLeod! He wore a dress too!" He drew his sword and tried to kill her, as he had killed others of her kind, and found that his sword bounced off an invisible shield of some kind. Nothing he did would work.
She lifted her chin in a self-righteousness that was only proper, "I am protected by the shield of political correctness, and since you have challenged me, I am forced to draw my sword: the PC Thought Police!"
Kern looked at the door in misbelief as a team of lawyers sort of scrambled in through the front door, speaking in a jumble of fast, high-pitched voices, "He's wearing buttons - - sue him -- he might offend the Amish! Oh, look -- he's praying to himself silently -- he might offend the nonreligious and those--" Kern -- and about half the people in the saloon -- didn't wait for them to even approach. They all ran for the windows and the back door, escaping this horrible monster. Many of the men never stopped running for fear that no matter where they went, they would be there.
As Kern climbed up on his horse, he waited before he rode away, exclaiming, "You've have beaten me now, but I'll--" But he stopped as a Thought Policeman's head popped out of his saddlebags, "Is that attempted use of the future tense? I'm forced to sue you in order to represent those who are future-impaired."
Kern's scream echoed throughout the landscape. Is that the end of him? I guess we'll never find out because it's just become politically incorrect to resolve cliffhang--
[snipped at the requests of the PC thought police]
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