Merle Fugate opened his eyes and stared at the water spots on the ceiling. They looked like the age spots on the back of his hands. Once his feet hit the floor he was Mark Sterling, gun fighter. He washed and shaved, then strapped on his six guns; of course they weren’t actually real six guns, but the magazine said they were athentic copies, even down to the weight. He donned his Stetson and pulled it down over his eyes. Of course it wasn’t a real Stetson, but the closest he could find to one in the thrift store. He stepped into the hall and grimaced at the smell of cleanser, wondered if all nursing homes smelled the same. This early, it was quiet as Mark Sterling’s eyes swept the street as if he owned it, then stepped from the curb angling towards Granny’s Cafe. The aroma of frying bacon brought a smile to Marks lips, but the smile would scare small children. The few patrons gaped at the 77 year old man wearing six guns, then the owner/cook called out a greeting from the kitchen. “Gonna have the same, Mark?”