The Days of Blood and Scorpions

A hundred and fifty years ago it was easy to tell which were the really tough men, because they'd be the ones picking their teeth with a live scorpion's tail. And it was even easier to tell which of these really tough men were the ones with a mean streak, 'cause they'd blame venomous mishaps on you.

You'd be walking down the street, minding your own business and then suddenly get shot in the neck.
"OW!" You'd shout, grabbing your neck and whirling around to see who'd just shot you. It was usually the man with smoking gun in his hand and a grotesquely swelling upper lip--that was usually the man who'd just shot you.

"Hey, did you just shoot me?!!!" You'd query, on the off chance it hadn't been him.
"Yeah jerk," he'd usually reply. "You startled my scorpion, you clumsy fool." And then he'd level his gun at your face.

What happened next depended entirely on what sort of man you were. If you were not a tough man, you'd drop to your knees and beg forgiveness--which he'd grant with spat tobacco in your eyes, and then you'd be laughed out of town by street drunks and whores. But if you were a tough man, you'd just pull out a scorpion and calmly pick your teeth with its tail.

"Oh, did I?" You'd ask, with a sneer and a glare, and when your scorpion stung you you'd shoot him.

"OW!!!" He'd holler and clasp his neck with his hand. "You shot me!!!"

"Yeah." You'd reply. "You startled my scorpion with your hideous lip--you might want to cover that up, clumsy fool."

At which point you'd both apologize and head for the saloon, where you'd drink whiskey and rub salve on each other's wounds.

Oh, those were magnificent days. We'll probably never see their kind again. I blame lawyers and those damn entomology lobbyists.