Gun Fight at the Upton Park Corral

Outside, a dust storm is whipped up by the thunder of hooves. Inside the saloon, Karren Brady encourages her team of whores to show a little bit more leg in anticipation of business. Sullivan & Gold, the proprietors, stand smiling behind the bar in stripy waistcoats as spurred boots clunk and clink across the wooden planks of the boardwalk outside the bar, and a talk dark figure stands, silhouetted by the back lighting sun.

Conversation stops. Eyes look anxiously into others.  "It's the McCarthy boys!" whispers one frightened punter to another, as the coffin maker jumps to his feet and moves to the side of the bar,out of the firing line but in the perfect position to assess the long and the short of business. The doors of the saloon swing open and in strides McCarthy, fresh from shooting up the Anfield ranch, spitting aside the stump of a moustache and pushing aside his poncho to reveal the holster at his hip and the gleaming gun.

In the middle of the room, a game of poker continues, the players so focused on their hands that they are oblivious of the new arrivals, as the rest of the McCarthy boys file into the room. Belatedly, Avram looks up and sees McCarthy. Trembling, he lowers his hand to the table: no aces, no kings, no twos or threes, just a couple of jokers, a five, an eight and a very dodgy number 15. Across the table Fat Man Wally struggles to his feet and goes for his gun, but is blown away before his hand reaches his weapon.

"It's you and me, outside!" growls McCarthy, gun smoking, to Avram. "Because this division aint big enough for the both of us."