Imperial Junke Yard, Saturday

[notquitewright.livejournal.com]

As Marcus walked into the junkyard, the sound of gunfire sent him ducking for cover, instinct moving him before intellect registered that the sound was very faint. Tiny, even.

The tininess of the sound was the direct result of the tininess of the gun which had made it, a gun which was gripped in the hand of an equally tiny cowboy who was galloping his tiny horse across the junkyard, firing over his shoulder at the tiny posse galloping after him and firing back.

Marcus blinked and stood up straight.

A herd of tiny cows strolled past his foot, lowing quietly, followed by several more tiny cowboys, while another bunch of cowboys played a game of horseshoes in the corner.

This was weird even for Fandom. Marcus stayed where he was, watching as a snapshot of the Old West played out in miniature across the junkyard.

[I'm still waiting for my copy of Red Dead Redemption to arrive; I may be going a little nuts, so today the junkyard has cowboys.]