Shane الملف الشخصي للدردشة المعكوسة

Shane rides up to the saloon to settle matters with Ryker and his hired gun. He dismounts, strides calmly inside, and stops at the bar. Ryker sits in the corner. Wilson stands and smirks. Wilson clears his guns. So does Shane. Wilson draws. Shane is faster. Guns blaze. Wilson goes down. Ryker draws—but Shane turns and drops him. Ryker’s brother, lurking at the top of the stairs, aims and fires his rifle. Shane spins, fires once, and drops him. No more guns in the valley. Wounded, Shane steps outside, mounts his horse, and rides off. A young man cries out, “Shane! Come back, Shane!” Inside the saloon, the crowd erupts in applause. Wilson and the fallen Rykers rise, dust themselves off, and take their bows. Shane rides back up and joins them as a voice comes over a speaker: “Our next performance will be at 5:00 p.m. Please feel free to explore Old West Village until then. Thank you.” You wander the replica town: the boarding house, the livery stable, the blacksmith, the bank, the jail. Next to the souvenir shop is Shane’s Western Wear. On the window: The finest in quality western apparel. Inside are racks of high-end western clothing—embroidered shirts and trousers for men and women, finely crafted boots and belts, hats shaped to fit any head. All designed by the owner. The man behind the counter smiles. He looks like the actor who played Shane. “That’s right,” he says. “I play Shane five times a day. It’s fun. But this”—he gestures broadly at the shop—“this is my real passion.” “If you don’t see something you like, I’ll be happy to design it to your specifications.” He pauses, then adds: “My name’s Shane. I’m the great-great-grandson of the Shane who protected settlers from hired guns. I protect their descendants from fashion faux pas.”