Our cast so far: Wayne Brady: sheriff Chip Esten: cowboy Colin Mochrie: piano player Greg Proops: barkeep Brad Sherwood: obligatory stranger Ryan Stiles: blacksmith
** Part 1 by Chris Taylor The stranger rolls in...
"What the hell kind of backward town is this, anyway?" the stranger asked himself as he rode past the sign that read "Rock Ridge". The streets were dusty and dry and empty. The sun beat down mercilessly on the weathered wood of the empty buildings that stood sentinel on the street. Not a single thing stirred within sight. Sherwood didn't like it; too many shootouts had started this way.
Here and there, the breeze picked up and blew bits of tumbleweed and grit across his vision. His horse, Clive, snorted and danced uneasily. "Whoa," Sherwood said quietly, patting the chestnut's neck. "Easy there, boy." He guided his horse over to a building marked simply "Saloon," and then dismounted with easy grace. Looping the reigns over a post, he made sure Clive was secure before turning and heading into the building.
Muted music drifted through the hinged doors. Sherwood reached out and pushed them inward with the heel of his hand. They made an odd *squeaky, squeaky* noise as they opened. He paused a moment, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark, and then stepped inside, taking off his hat as he did.
Dead silence greeted him. He could make out three, no four, men inside. One wore glasses and stood behind the bar, his hands frozen in the act of drying a mug with a dirty towel. Another pair sat at a table--one tall and lanky, the other shorter and well muscled. The fourth, a balding man, sat behind a yellowing piano, fingers hovering just above the keys. They were all staring at him.
Undeterred, Sherwood ignored them and walked up to the bar. "Howdy," he said to the barkeep, whose dark eyes narrowed suspiciously behind his coke-bottle lenses. "Gimmie a shot of whiskey."
The barkeep nodded and moved away momentarily. When he returned, he had a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey in hand. Setting the glass down, he filled it quickly and then let the bottle thump back onto the counter. "Where you headin', stranger?"
Sherwood got the message: you'd best be passing through. "Durgano," he shrugged. "On my way to see my sister." It was just then he noticed something strange as he glanced over the bar: the barkeeper wasn't wearing any pants. He glanced around at the others.
None of them were wearing pants, either...
Part 2 by Nat
He was about to ask, when he spotted the sign on the wall. "Pants-Free Zone." Well, of course. It made perfect sense. Or something. Sherwood debated removing his own pants, but, being a traditional sort of stranger, decided to keep them until he was forced to part with them. He took his drink and sat at a table in the corner.
Part 3 by 'Ria
He tried to avert his eyes away from both the curious raised eyebrow of the barkeep, and the half naked men who were staring at him. Sherwood shook his head lightly as if to erase a few certain thoughts from his mind. 'Buddy,' he thought to himself, 'This is either the worst or the best day of your life.'
The two men leaning against the bar smiled at each other, the taller of them nudging his friend in the soft flesh below his shirt. Taking the hint, the other righted himself and made his way towards the stranger. Sherwood cleared his throat slightly and tried to remain in eye contact.
Suddenly everyone was startled by the doors swinging rapidly open. The dark figure in the doorway remained in place until everyone jumped. As everyone took notice of him, a black man dressed ruggedly in spurs, dust covered cowboy boots, an equally dusty plaid shirt and handkerchief, and a gold sheriff's star, stepped into the bar. The ker- chunk, ker-chunk noise from the spurs echoed in the quiet bar. All eyes were on his solemn expression as he took in the sight around him. His eyes then settled on Sherwood.
"You new here, boy?" He asked, squinting his eyes slightly.
"I reckon," came the immediate reply.
The sheriff's attention was brought back to the half naked men. "What's the matter with you all?" He roared suddenly, his hands slowly creeping towards his belt buckle. Sherwood noted warily that resting just below his belt, the man had an expensive holster holding two shining, fancy guns.
"Ain't you got any sense?!" The man roared again. His face then broke into an amused grin as he said, "You started without me!"
Part 4 by Kelly
"It's Tuesday, after all," the barkeep answered, a slightly sarcastic drawl in his voice. "You shouldn't expect us to wait." Running a rag over the edge of a glass, he turned, reached over, and grabbed a bottle of murky-looking liquor, pouring a shot and setting it sharply on the counter. "Your usual, I take it."
The sheriff responded only with a broad grin. Sherwood shifted slightly, trying to draw his attention away from the fact that the piano player was wearing some rather bright boxers. Not that Sherwood had anything against bright green dinosaurs, of course, but it was hard to ignore.
When Sherwood looked up from his whiskey again, he found himself nearly nose to nose with the sheriff. "You," the sheriff emphasized, tilting his half-filled glass at the stranger, "seem to be lookin' for trouble. Everyone follows the laws in these parts, y'hear?" Taking another swing, the sheriff pointed towards the sign.
"No trouble," Sherwood answered quietly, his hand lingering hesitantly at his belt. Pants- Free Zone or not, there was something disturbing about the idea of losing his pants, even for the sake of a drink. Especially considering that his own monkey-and-banana underthings would likely cause a certain amount of mocking.
The sheriff stared at him for a moment, a strange humor glinting in their murky depths. "Then what's your choice? Are you goin' to follow the rules?"
Part 5 by Bonnie
Sherwood looked around and noticed everybody was staring at him intently. "Hey! Did you hear me? I said are you goin' to follow the rules," the sheriff said after a few minutes. Sherwood nodded slightly. Well, here goes nothing, Sherwood thought. He kicked off his boots and pulled off his pants, immediately putting his boots back on afterwards. He noticed the smirks of the other people in the saloon. One of that men at the table whispered to the other and the started snickering. The man behind the piano stood up and walked towards Sherwood.
Part 6 by Colby
Sherwood watched apprehensively as the piano player strode towards him. When he reached Sherwood, he was shaking his head, and a small snicker escaped his lips. He put his arm around Sherwood's shoulder and took him aside, while the other men in the bar continued to whisper amongst themselves.
"Son," the bald man said, "I understand you're not from 'round these parts, but," he continued, "Our 'Pants-Free Zone' is also a 'Briefs-Free Zone'." With that, the rest of the bar erupted in laughter.
Sherwood looked down at his own boudoir-wear, and turned an interesting shade of pink when he realized he was indeed wearing cotton monkey print *briefs*. He stood in one spot for a moment, frozen with embarrassment. He was a slick, western gunslinger...how could he have made the eternally un-cool decision to wear briefs?
Part 7 by Mary C.
He suddenly felt ridiculously uncomfortable, covering himself with his hands in a comical pose. The bartender leaned up against the counter, pushing his glasses up and eyeing the stranger thoughtfully. With a sideways smile aimed at the other patrons, he spoke.
"You know, you could always take off the briefs," he remarked. "I'm sure you're a peaceable fella, don't want any trouble."
The sheriff watched with interest, ready to take charge if necessary. He had a feeling he wouldn't need to.
"Yeah, I reckon I could take 'em off, but I'd be mighty sore if anyone made a comment about it." He spoke carefully, watching around him. The young cowboy turned, pushing up his hat.
"Seems to me you ain't got much of a choice. The law is the law, after all." The tension in the room was thick as the men sized each other up. "Unless, of course, yer yellow."
Everyone stood, all eyes trained on Sherwood. With a determined stare he grabbed the waist of his briefs and pulled them down, not taking his eyes from the young cowboy.
"You have somethin' to say about it, boy, now's yer time. I don't like trouble, but nobody calls me yellow."
Part 8 by Thesseli
Sherwood stared straight ahead, determined not to be disturbed by the other men's eyes on him. The inspection continued for a good while, with the piano player and the tall man looking him up and down as if he were a prize bull at a cattle auction.
The barkeep squinted at him through his coke-bottle glasses, then grinned. "Why, I wouldn't call you yellow at all."
"Nope, he ain't yellow," said the young cowboy, as he finished his appraisal. His gaze lingered suggestively on Sherwood's nether-regions. "More of a rose-red, if you ask me."
The cowboy then looked Sherwood in the eyes. "So, boy, you plannin' on stayin' in town for a bit, or are you just passin' through?"
TBC.