I'm bored. And I miss the old days of really poor role-playing. Kind of. So here's a stupid idea.
This is a western adventure. I will play a brigand of some description. Clarke Anderson will play a gun-slinging desperado. Chris Wesley will be a man with a loarge bushy moustache, and a garter around his arm. If he likes he may also be a barman. With a bushy moustache. Everyone else can do whatever they want. We will probably need a Sherriff, and a time traveller from the future. Do whatever you want.

Our story (like every good role-play) begins in the local tavern.
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You are in a tavern. Music plays from a scratchy gramophone in one corner. A man with a bushy moustache stands behind the bar, polishing a glass. Several people are playing cards. There are stairs leading up to one side of the room. A man lies slumped over a table, and empty bottle beside him. There a several empty tables.

>Go north

You are at the bar. The barman asks if he can help you. The menu is on the wall behind the bar.

"Whiskey", I said.
The barkeeper fetched a small glass, and produced a bottle with a dusty yellow label from under the bar. As he filled the glass, I fished a dime out of my pocket and tossed it onto the bar. It clattered across the stained wooden surface.
"It's a quarter for a whiskey", the barman informed me.
"Well all's I got's a dime, so all's you'll get's is a dime..." I confirmed in my best brigand slang.

There was a crash behind me as someone burst through the saloon doors, legs apart, knees bent, arms outstretched, red bendana tied casually around his neck. I used the barman's moment of distraction to snatch the glass of whiskey and quickly consume it.

'Take that', I thought to myself as my head began to spin. The man stood in the doorway. Slowly, he began to walk forward. He moved awkwardly, rotating his hips so that his feet began spread wider than his shoulders and his knees were still bent.

The very definition of style.
(Remember, this is 1683 or somethig. I dunno. I don't care.)

Eventually he made his way across the room and we stood face to face in front of the bar. The barman removed himself very slowly from the vicinity.

"I don't want no trouble now, y'hear?" he asked.

Strangely, the saloon had more people in it now, and they were all looking intently at the two men eyeballing each other, even though one of them was standing with his knees bent and wasn't actually that tall to begin with, so was alot shorter than the other guy.

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Someone else's turn now. Do whatever you want. There will be a treat later if there is good participation. And as always, the rules are only a guideline. Defy gravity if you must. If this degenerates into a shooting gallery, all the better I say.