“Look, if you’re going to stab me, just fucking do it,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “All this chit-chat is getting annoying.”
“How the hell did you find us in the first place?” asked Chester A. Arthur XVII.
“God damn it, Charlie…”
“It wasn’t hard,” said the cowboy.
“You used your full names when you advertised your rental service,” said the Indian.
“Way to go, Charlie,” said Queen Victoria XXX. “The one time you don’t think something through to a completely unnecessary extreme and now I have to die for it.”
“Hey, you said it was a good idea,” replied Chester A. Arthur XVII. “You argued for a cut of the profits!”
“I didn’t tell you to advertise my involvement so some obsessive, homicidal ghost could track me down and slice my god damned head off!”
“I’ve got my own psychopathic spirit to deal with right now, OK? We can argue about this later.”
“Later? What later? We are at a remarkable disadvantage here.”
“Christ,” said the cowboy, cocking the revolver, “Nevermind that grudge shit, I’m ‘bout to shoot ‘em both just to shut their asses up.”
The cowboy, however, shot neither the president nor the queen. Instead, the cowboy exploded. So did the Indian.
“What the fuck?” inquired Chester A. Arthur XVII and Queen Victoria XXX, in unison and with much incredulousness.
Still on their backs—and now covered in bits of burning, decaying flesh—Chester and Victoria turned their heads awkwardly until they could see William H. Taft XLII standing behind them, shouldering a smoking rocket launcher.
“Left it in the trunk,” said William H. Taft XLII, patting the weapon lovingly.