A dull crunch reverberated through the dank, dimly lit alleyway as a bullet passed completely through Mac McMac's skull, blowing away the back of his head and embedding itself in one of the surrounding walls. Splats of blood and brains followed and spread themselves randomly on the brickwork. Mac slumped forwards and splashed limply onto the puddled pavement.

A ginger haired, blue cloaked figure emerged from the shadows, re-holstered his gun and gently nudged the dead man's body with his boot. Blood was spouting from the body’s gaping head wound.

"I need a fuckin' drink." The cloaked figure said, almost whispering.

Turning, the cloaked figure strode confidently out of the alleyway and into the village's main street. Several wooden carts clattered by, drawn by gnarled gorks, yak-like creatures of great strength and odour. The cloaked figure crossed between them and made his way through the piles of dung to the tavern opposite.

"’ave yerra coin forra poor begga?" A reeking vagrant asked, stumbling closer.

"Prove that you're fuckin' poor!" The ginger haired man said, looking harshly at the tramp.

"Just gimme a coin, sir."

"Prove that you're fuckin' poor!"

"I can't!"

"How do you expect people to take you and you're begging business seriously if you can't do a simple fuckin' thing like that?"

"What?"

"Fuck off home and re-think your commercial strategy."

"But sir, I just wanna coin forra meal!"

"Do what I say and in no time you will have a thriving business. One day you'll even be able to sell franchises to other fuckin' vagabonds!"

Before the rancid beggar could respond, the cloaked figure had disappeared into the tavern. The daylight faded as night began its slow migration across the cloudless sky.

"Bloody off-worlder!" The flea infested tramp said. He wandered off to find another gullible fool to pester.

The tavern was small, dimly lit but very cosy and warm. There where fireplaces on each wall, around which huddled portly groups of untidy men, gambling, smoking, drinking and snoring.

His soft soled shoes made no sound on the stone floor as the cloaked figure walked confidently over to the bar.

"What'll it be for yer today?" The stocky saliva dribbling barkeeper asked.

"Get me a large jug of your best fuckin' ale!"

"That'll be 'Gutrum's Bowel Basher'." The barkeeper said, grabbing a three litre jug from above the bar.

"I don't give a flying fuck what it's called." The ginger haired man said. "Just pour the fucker!"

The barkeeper did as he was told and handed the jug over. The cloaked figure drank down almost half of the liquid delight in less than ten seconds. He slammed the jug down and wiped his lips. "Fuckin' excellent!" He exclaimed. "I needed that."

"You certainly did!" The barkeeper agreed.

"Shut the fuck up!" The cloaked figure shouted. He turning away from the bar and faced the smoke filled room. "Fuckin' peasant!" He muttered under his breath.

Two identical men dressed in heavy brown leather dungarees entered and sat at a table near the doorway. The large tattoos on their foreheads immediately gave away their identity. They were the McDakakadak twins, ruthless leaders of a brutal pack of late night frenzied muggers. This band of petrifying men created stupendous unrest amongst the nearby villages and had to be dealt with.

Right on time, thought the cloaked figure. He got to his feet and stared at the two crime lords. It's now or never! He drank the rest of his ale and then threw the jug at the barkeeper. The barkeeper, shocked and stunned, fell backwards and smashed his head hard on a shelf full of wine bottles. They collapsed onto him, smashing into his face and causing dangerous lacerations. Blood and alcohol mixed rapidly on the floor.

The deadly twins looked over to the bar, curious at the noisy commotion that was occurring. They noticed the cloaked figure walking calmly over to them. Instinctively, they unholstered their pistols and held them tightly, ready for action.

"Gentlemen?" The ginger haired man said as he reached the two mugger managers. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

The twins looked at each other, and then looked back at the stranger that had approached them. "Why?" They croaked in unison.

"I have a proposition for you."

"What propo…"

Before the macabre twosome could finish their question, two large boots had connected swiftly with their faces sending them flying out of their seats and across the floor. The cloaked figure back-flipped and tumbled squarely back onto his feet, drawing his weapon at the same time.

"Once you two fuckers are dead," he said striding towards them, "your fowl ring of robbers will dissipate through lack of leadership."

The cloaked figure aimed and fired three quick shots. The nearest of the twins took them all, first in the gut, then the chest and finally the face. Blood, cartilage and bone splashed and splintered around the tavern, some even attaching itself to the low beamed ceiling. All eyes watched the ensuing conflict with astonishment.

The surviving twin, having had a few seconds to recover from the kick, aimed his pistol at the ginger haired man.

"Yer killed my brother!" He screamed. "Yer'll die violent for that!" He fired viciously.

The cloaked figure dropped to the floor behind a table, tipping it over. A couple of shots zipped overhead, the rest hit the table showering splinters of wood into the air.

"Bastard!" The distressed twin shouted, getting to his feet. "Death'll be slow'n painful!" He fired off some more erratic shots in the direction of the damaged table.

The cloaked figure leapt unexpectedly into the air, surprising the surviving McDakakadak twin. Before he landed, the figure fired the remaining three shots from his six-shooter. The bad guy took all three in the face, his head exploding in a spray of crimson mist.

"Fuck faced motherfuckin' fucked up fuck head of a fuckin' fucker!" The ginger haired man shouted, kicking the twitching corpse that lay bleeding before him. "The two fuckin' McDakakadak twins and their fuckin' assistant McMac terminated!" The cloaked figure said, smiling. "Mission fuckin' accomplished!"

The ginger-haired figure holstered his pistol, opened the tavern door and walked out into the evening mist. Several vagrants gathered around him. "Fuck off, peasants!" he shouted loudly.

They fucked off, not amused by the look in the stranger’s eyes.

A bleeping sound emanated from the ginger haired figure’s utility belt. He looked down at the device that was making the noise. Its screen was illuminated and was displaying some flashing information. "Fuck!" He said in amazement. "Someone has initiated the Fuckin' T.A.R. Command!"

The cloaked figure was known as Ross Mental, a bounty hunter of extreme martial arts ability and holder of the galactic 'Fuck Off' award for obscenity shouting.

"Time to leave this fuckin' mud bucket of a backwards fuckin' planet."

Ross Mental wandered down the street, away from the village, and out into the blackness of the sunless countryside.