High... Plains... Drifter

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The setting is Lago, a crappy little town filled with the worst kinds of people you could conjure. As the Boys would say, it's a nice place to visit but a better place to rob.

So you see, the greedy, me-first townspeople found out that the local marshal had made a tragic discovery. The nearby mine -- the town's solitary livelihood generator -- was actually on government property. Ruh-roh.

Cash flow gettin' low so they had to pull a job

Not just any job. Murder.

So basically, in order to tell the government and the outside world in general to perform the physical act of love on itself, and in order to keep this source of money that they had no inherent claim to . . . they will stoop to incredible depths to preserve their selfish goals.

Here's the thing. These gutless wonders didn't have the sand or sack to do it themselves. They hired the lowest slime on the planet to take care of the dirty business and preserve their crappy little lives. Sometimes people do that.  You do what you think you have to do and you hold your nose when it comes to the moral implications.

Good luck with that.

So into this dusty, depraved town rides a Stranger. Not the kind of stranger you'd find in the works of Camus or Smith, Joel or Kipling, Seger, Salinger, Starship, or Supertramp, not in cautionary tales or onanistic deviance. This Stranger is Clint Eastwood.  Clint 'twixt Dirty Harry and William Munny.  Clint closer to Josey Wales. Clint, very bad man.

I feel that I'm getting pushed 

Whitney and Rob, 1883

Don't step to me 'cause you could be gettin' mushed 

The Stranger is not the hero Lago deserves, but the one it needs right now. He's not even a hero. He's not even an antihero. He's evil.  He's the devil. He's a vengeful spectre. He's a murderous rapist. And he's more than kind of a dick. Although he did appoint a tiny dictator.

When Jack said, "This town needs an enema," Lago needs one more than Gotham ever did, and The Stranger is that rectal bulb syringe.

So this fella pulls a Number 6 on Lago. You know, Number 6. He comes a-ridin' into town, a whoppin' and whumpin' every livin' thing that moves within an inch of its life. Except the women folks, of course.  Wait, he does them, too.

You don't mind him when he's like this.

Here's the wrinkle. After the townsfolk hired the slime to kill the marshal, they turned 'em in.  But... whoops-a-daisy... someone up high pardoned 'em or commuted their sentences or what have you.  And guess what?  The dirtballs in question are now free, and chances are good that they won't exact their revenge on the people of Lago by tweeting hysterical hyperbole.

Pulled over to the river, to take a rest 
Pulled out a pair of pliers pulled a bullet out of my chest

You'd better run when he looks like this. 

So the Stranger and the evil dimwit hired guns are set at odds.  The thing is, there's more collateral damage than at a Steven King pie-eating contest.  The real losers are, of course, the people of Lago.  Not that they weren't losers to begin with, but yikes.  This sucks even more than living in a remote western American town in eighteen-sump'n-sump'n already sucks.

You wind up finding exactly where these folks find themselves living.

So, herein lies the question for the ages.  Did the arrival of the Stranger commence the final ruination of the already morally shaky place?  Was he the lesson that fighting fire with fire will result in everyone and everything being charred remains?

Or... did he give the town its necessary enema, eradicating evil up and down and leaving Lago ready to rebuild anew on a better promise for tomorrow?  They couldn't have gotten rid of the resident evil without him.  They simply could not.  And he did.

You tell me, gentle viewers.

The linkage is thinly veiled. I'm all for nominating the most moral and effective leader to run against Trump. In theory.  Nominating another Walter Mondale or George McGovern-style historical footnote will allow everyone to hold their heads high for a brief, brief moment... before DJT disembowels the people and the planet for another 4 long ones.

There is a floor we should not sink beneath in the valiant pursuit of eviction, but the question is whether Bloomberg is below it.  Right now I'm leaning toward The Stranger to clean some fucking house. He didn't do well the other night, but he may be our version of The Stranger.

Sarah Belding: Be careful. You're a man who makes people afraid, and that's dangerous.
The Stranger: Well, it's what people know about themselves inside that makes 'em afraid.

'Cause I'm the high... plains... drifter, and I'm the drifter 
The high... plains... drifter, and I'm the drifter 

May God have mercy on our souls.