Wheatley stepped in front of the entrance to one of the seedier looking saloons. His little harness was decorated in the provided gear; a cowboy hat, a vest, and boots. And a plastic sheriff's badge.
He'd seen enough Westerns, he knew how to fit in. Step one: Walk bow-legged. He crouched and got into a crab-walking position. Check.
Step two: Spit tobacco. Now, he had no mouth with which to chew or spit, but he had that covered. A little water pistol. The perfect substitute.
Step three: A cowboy accent. "Testing, one two three, yee-haw, headin' to the waterin' hole, there's a snake in my boots," he said in the most offensively stereotypical accent he could muster. Perfect. He was going to fit right in.
And so he walked into the saloon, pushing the doors open with both hands and walking in.
Five minutes later, a badly mangled Wheatley was thrown through the window of the saloon into the street.
Re: Saloons & Bars
He'd seen enough Westerns, he knew how to fit in. Step one: Walk bow-legged. He crouched and got into a crab-walking position. Check.
Step two: Spit tobacco. Now, he had no mouth with which to chew or spit, but he had that covered. A little water pistol. The perfect substitute.
Step three: A cowboy accent. "Testing, one two three, yee-haw, headin' to the waterin' hole, there's a snake in my boots," he said in the most offensively stereotypical accent he could muster. Perfect. He was going to fit right in.
And so he walked into the saloon, pushing the doors open with both hands and walking in.
Five minutes later, a badly mangled Wheatley was thrown through the window of the saloon into the street.
"Aw, it was all going so well too..."