The Best Rootin' Tootin' Shootin' Gunslinger in the Whole Damned Galaxy by Mike Resnick

over. A typical native of Tilarba, he was perhaps five feet tall, covered by leathery orange skin with occasional tufts of bright orange hair. His eyes were quite large, his mouth broad, his nose almost nonexistent, his ears small and circular.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “What can I do for you, son?” asked Monk after flicking on his translating device.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “This game,” said the Tilarban. ‘”How do you play it?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Nothing to it,” said Monk, bouncing a ball on the ground. “See this ball? You just pick it up and . . ."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Flint turned and began walking away. He heard a splash a moment later, resisted the temptation to look back, and returned to the ship. He walked into the mess hall, took his coat off tossed it over the back of his chair, and told one of the galley robots to bring him a cup of black coffee.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  When the coffee arrived he pressed his hands against the cup, warming them for a few minutes. Finally he took a sip, made a face, pulled a small flask out of his pocket, and poured a shot of artificial gin into the cup. Then he took a spoon, stirred the mixture vigorously, and took another taste, this time nodding his head in silent approval.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Tojo passed by the entrance to the mess hall, saw Flint sitting alone at his table, and walked over. “Did you speak to them?” he asked.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Yeah, I spoke to them."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “They’re not going to stop?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “What did you expect? They wouldn’t stop when they were taking turns cutting each other to ribbons in the ring. Why the hell should a little cold weather slow ’em down?” He took another swallow of his coffee. “How’s the Dancer doing?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “The same as always,” replied Tojo.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “And Ahasuerus remembered to rig the place for a video recording?"        persisted Flint. “We’re going to need something to show on the next world so the marks will know what to expect."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “He says that everything is taken care of."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Flint frowned. “I’ll just bet it is."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “What’s the matter, Thaddeus?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “What makes you think anything is the matter?” demanded Flint irritably.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “You seem disturbed about something."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “Do I, now?” Flint finished his coffee, brought out his flask, look a long swig of the gin. “I’ve got two guys working the Bozo cage who want to kill each other, I’ve got a dipsomaniac bossing my games crew, I’ve got a cowboy who’s stark staring mad and tonight I’m going to be letting him take pot shots at the customers, I’ve got a barker who stammers, I’ve got a wrestler who has to be reminded not to eat his opponents, and I’ve got a partner who spends more time being concerned about things than fixing them. Why the hell should you think anything is the matter?"
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  Tojo stared silently at him for a long moment. “I thought the translator hid my stammer,” he said at last.
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “It does,” said Flint in a more gentle voice. “It’s just that sometimes I feel like a pro football player who suddenly finds himself coaching a grammar school. He can see what has to be done, he can explain all the strategy to them, but he can’t go out onto the field and play the goddamned game for them." He paused. “I was the best barker this show ever had."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “I know."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â  “And when Julius Squeezer got uppity a couple of years ago, I beat the shit out of him."
    Â Â Â Â Â Â