- Jan 12, 2021
- 231
- 140
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- Country
- United States
- Gender
- Male
- Faith
- Methodist
- Marital Status
- Single
- Politics
- US-Others
A man stepped through the bat-wing doors of a dusty 1900s saloon, boots clicking on the warped floorboards. He spotted a lawman hunched over a table, nursing a drink, badge glinting in the lamplight.
The stranger slid into the chair across from him.
“Suppose I told you I could counterfeit this silver dollar,” he said, placing the coin on the table, “without a minting press… and without a speck of silver.”
The lawman snorted. “I’d like to see that.”
Before the lawman could blink, another fellow — dressed plain as a farmhand — walked up and handed the stranger an uncirculated silver dollar. Same year. Same markings. Same shine. The stranger passed it to the lawman.
“Who was that?” the lawman asked, slipping the coin into his vest pocket.
“Just a business associate,” the stranger replied.
He pushed the original coin toward the lawman. “Buy me a whisky and we’ll talk.”
The lawman obliged. The stranger downed the glass in one smooth motion, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “Check your pocket again.”
The lawman reached into his vest. His fingers brushed cloth, stitching, lint… but no coin. He checked the other pocket. Nothing. He stood, patting himself down,
confusion rising like the heat of the desert.
“It’s not there,” he muttered.
The stranger tipped his hat, stepped out into the evening dust, and vanished into the street. No one in town ever saw him again...
The stranger slid into the chair across from him.
“Suppose I told you I could counterfeit this silver dollar,” he said, placing the coin on the table, “without a minting press… and without a speck of silver.”
The lawman snorted. “I’d like to see that.”
Before the lawman could blink, another fellow — dressed plain as a farmhand — walked up and handed the stranger an uncirculated silver dollar. Same year. Same markings. Same shine. The stranger passed it to the lawman.
“Who was that?” the lawman asked, slipping the coin into his vest pocket.
“Just a business associate,” the stranger replied.
He pushed the original coin toward the lawman. “Buy me a whisky and we’ll talk.”
The lawman obliged. The stranger downed the glass in one smooth motion, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “Check your pocket again.”
The lawman reached into his vest. His fingers brushed cloth, stitching, lint… but no coin. He checked the other pocket. Nothing. He stood, patting himself down,
confusion rising like the heat of the desert.
“It’s not there,” he muttered.
The stranger tipped his hat, stepped out into the evening dust, and vanished into the street. No one in town ever saw him again...
