I was nostalgically reading over some old comedy sets I wrote years ago this week, for no apparent reason. I came across the following. To the best of my knowledge I never performed this, published it or used it for anything. The state I found it in suggests I wrote it very quickly, but to be honest I have no memory of ever doing any such thing. I present it here for your... enjoyment? Whatever. Take it, if you will, as a testament to what it's like to live in my head sometimes.

This town ain’t big enough for the both of us, McKlinson. I’m running you out of town.

The town would be a lot bigger if you’d just approve my construction permit for a granny flat out the back of Ol’ Murphy’s smithy.

You ain’t listening McKlinson – this ain’t a town for no flat grannies. I’m’a give you to the count of three before I riddle you so full of holes you’ll think a slice of Swiss cheese has enviable structural integrity.

Mighty tough talk there Sheriff, but have you got the stones to back them up with bullets or are you just a low-down, up-high, over-the-shoulder soufflé dispenser?

I’ve bullets a-plenty for both of us. You just name the time and the place.

The time: 8 o’clock, the twelfth of March, 1863. The place, Rue de Saint Martin, on the West side of the Champs Elysée. There’s a bakery there that does the most amazing buttered croissants. I do my killing before breakfast.

The only butter you’ll be killing is your own grave, McKlinson. And I’ll be there to spread it thick.

Well, then what do you say we skip the trip to France and have this out, right here right now.

I’m game if you are.

Sayanara, sucker

Au revoir, mon ami

(They shoot each other)

We’ll always have Paris

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Make of that what you will

Garry with 2 Rs

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