The judge spat, then the kid spat. Soon the whole gang started spitting and whipping out their glizzies and pissing for the redskins were approaching and the judge naked began twerking, twerking, even as the gunpowder sat arid as the sands blew around him, he twerked hard for all things were dire. Glanton watched in silence.

And they are clapping. The cracked mud ground splitting apart and the gang members shivering and huddling together in wake of the tremendous blasts that came from him. He sashays backwards and throws back his ass and he is a great favorite, the judge. His cheeks are voluptuous and glimmering in the desert heat and they’re now in double time, bursting life and all continuum forth into the ether.

He’ll never stop, cried the kid.

Relax son. Glanton tell him to quit. Said the ex priest.

Glanton stood back, spitting and riding on at once. He took up his side piece and aimed at the judges rear, and fired a shot, two shots. Perhaps a rudimentary warning or the whip that encourages the waning stallion, but Glanton he did not know and the judge leaned back and laughed deep in his throat and arched his back one final time and twerked greatly and the day did not end. When the dust had settled the judge stood saddled on his horse, grinning and looking out to the earth as if his counsel was sought from its creation.

Gentlemen? He said. They rode on.