Part 1: Big Bad Mort Brings Girlie Movies to the Saloon
"You brought what?" Mark Rootintootin asked in his thick drawl.
Just seconds earlier, Big Bad Mort had burst through the saloon door, his hands on his hips. He had held aloft a reflective metal canister, on which the words "GIRLIE MOVIE" were written in his distinctive scrawl.
"We're gonna watch an animated girlie movie?" asked Clyde the Kid. His cheeks turned red as he broke a sweat.
"The word, Clyde," said Big Bad Mort, "is hen-taaay."
"Mort, you deadbeat, we can't be watchin' girlie movies here!" shouted Mark.
Some of his spittle landed smack-dab in the center of one of Mort's thick spectacle lenses. Mort produced a handkerchief and wiped it off, fuming.
"Now," said Mort, pausing to send a dark, viscous wad of tobacco flying into a nearby spittoon, "Correct me if'n I'm wrong, but I believe the term… is HEN-TAAAY!"
Mark turned back to his sarsaparilla.
"You uncultured mudsill." Mort ground his teeth.
Mark wheeled around on his stool, tugging gently on the edge of his beard.
"Now," he muttered, "The size o' your kit n' caboodle must be gigantic fer you to say that to me."
Mort shrunk.
"We can't be watchin' girlie movies at the saloon! If'n we got caught, we'd get thrown in the calaboose. Then what? Where would the Ana-maaay posse go?"
"Welp," said Big Bad Mort, "we ain't goin' back to my mom's house."
"Darn tootin'," said Mark. "We can't never go back to yer mom's house."
"And," said Mort, twirling his moustache, "We ain't gonna get kicked outta here."
Mark sighed. Mort stood theatrically from his stool.
"I know it took us a coon's age to get this'n here cubbyhole in the saloon. I ain't gonna clean yer plow and fuck that up. But I also ain't gonna let this classic go unappurciated by the Ana-maaay Posse."
He turned the film canister over and displayed it for the others to see."
"SMEGMA PRINSESS"
"Holy shit!" Mark cried out in anger.
"Whoa," whispered Clyde the Kid.
"This'n here classic just got released over in Europe. They're sayin' it's too ob-seen fer an American release, but they're missin' the ace-high story 'neath it all, and just call it a 'girlie movie'."
"Now hold on a minute," said Dave Sarsaparilla, "we don't have one a' them fancy new projectors. This here is that new kinda film."
"Well, then," said Mort, smiling, "you're lucky I also got copy a' the movie on that old kinda film." He produced a second canister, labeled only with an "X".
"Why the hell would you get two copies of the same girlie movie?" asked Mark.
Mort was silent for a moment.
"You know, Mark, I don't see why a smart feller like you would ask such a stupid question."
Mark fumed.
"Come on, fire up the projector."
Mark grumbled as Dave began to turn the crank.
"Curley!" commanded Mort, "Give us some piano!"
Curley's fingers played carefully across the keys, sounding out the tinkly soundtrack to Princess Smegma.
Clyde the Kid was captivated, his mouth wide open. He was learning new things. Feeling new things.
Mort shed a single tear of joy.
And then, just as they began to enjoy it, the film stopped.
Frozen in place was a single frame: the words "KILL ALL COFFEEBOILERS" in shoddy handwriting.
And whilst the boys were captivated by this threatening message, a man in a red bandana entered the room and made off with the film reel.
"Like hell, you do!" shouted Dave Sarsaparilla, running after the mysterious figure. The other boys followed suit.
There, piled up in the middle of the street, was Dave's entire collection of anime. That's right. From Ao no Exorcist to Zero no Tsukaima, they were all there.
And standing before it, brandishing a comically large match (seriously, this thing was, like, huge) was the mysterious figure.
"This is for you, Big Bad Mort. Or should I say…Big Baby Mort?"
"NO!" cried Dave Sarsaparilla.
But he was too late. The figure flicked the match, and it landed right on top of the fourth episode of Sailor Moon. In an instant, the pile went up in flames, reducing every frame of Dave's precious anime to dust.
The figure mounted a nearby horse and rode off. Dave began to weep.
"Dagnabbit, Mort!" cried Mark Rootintootin, shoving his friend, "Who the hell was that?"
"Well, Mark," Mort replied, adjusting his spectacles, "I thought he was a trusted vendor." He pointed at Dave.
"And I reckon I share Dave's pain in knowin' that said imports vendor is a yellabellied varmint."
Mark narrowed his eyes.
"You…share his pain? Why…you dragged-out croaker."
Mort frowned.
"Mark, you've been a useless layabout this entire time. So, if there's somethin' you wanna say, I reckon you better say it now."
"Oh yeah?" Mark leaned in.
"You shouldn't be the leader of the Ana-maaay Poss—"
Mort cut him off with a swift blow to the face.
Mark touched his hand to his cheek. Blood.
"Why you…you crowbait!" he shouted.
"It seems to me that you are the only crowbait in this'n here scenario," Mort replied smugly.
Mark swung his fist at Mort's nose, knocking him back. The two rolled about on the ground in struggle.
Meanwhile, Clyde watched the burning pile intensely.
"She…the princess…took all them horses?"
He fell to his knees and shouted.
"I LOVE ANIME!"