{Cue Spaghetti Western Whistling} The gunslinger appears at the edge of town just as the church bell tolls high noon. The click of his mouse announces his arrival, and intensity shines out from his squinting eye-slits. The wireless keyboard, holstered at his side, shifts as the gunslinger steps forward. On the far end of the dirt road, separated only by whirling eddies of dust and careening tumbleweeds, is the Story. An elusive villain, wanted by every author in the land, and known to be as slippery as an eel, as mercurial as lightning, and as dangerous as life itself. The staredown begins. The gunslinger's hand twitches ominously at his side. He knows this chance is fleeting. He knows the stakes. His eyes narrow. His thumb slides against the knuckle of his forefinger. The wind stops. The time has come.
