Seth MacFarlane's A Million Ways to Die in the West(20)

As it swung back, Louise gracefully sauntered in, all bouncing blond curls and coquettish smiles for her wealthy new boyfriend. “Hi!” She beamed, throwing her arms around him.

“Hey, you.” Foy grinned. He grabbed her by the waist and kissed her long and hard. She reciprocated momentarily, then pulled away as she swung her hips back and forth, flashing her most seductively girlish smile.

“So, the fair’s coming up soon, and I thought maybe we could go dress shopping later,” she said, batting her long lashes.

Foy took the cue. “You know, I was thinking you could use a new dress.”

“Something … expensive?” she said, sliding a slender white finger down the center of his chest.

“Stupidly expensive,” he said, his tone theatrically devilish.

She laughed gaily and reached a hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for another kiss.

Albert was just in time to get an eyeful as he walked through the door. Yes, he’d had time to process the breakup. Sure, he’d tried to move forward by seeing other people. Yes, he’d known Louise and Foy were together. But the actual sight of her kissing him was a knife in his side. And suddenly all the agony came surging back in a nauseating wave, and he hurt all over again just as much as the day he’d lost her. But he’d be damned if he’d let it show.

Foy saw him first, and quietly pulled his lips away from his new girlfriend’s.

Louise turned to look and immediately lowered her gaze with an embarrassed sigh. “Oh, Jesus,” she muttered under her breath.

“Hi, Albert,” Foy greeted him confidently.

“Hello,” Albert answered, warily stepping inside. He pretended to be disinterested as he surveyed the various moustache-related products lining the shelves.

“What’s up, kiddo?” said Foy. “Never seen you in here before.”

“Just, um … browsing.” Albert hoped his faux nonchalance was at least somewhat convincing.

“Yeah … you don’t have a moustache, though.”

“Well, I was … I was thinkin’ about growin’ one.”

Louise whispered to Foy, loud enough for Albert to hear, “I’m gonna use the powder room.” She whirled with spinning skirts and retreated through a door in the back.

Albert felt another stab of distress. He’d shared so much love with this girl, so many good times, so many memories … and now she couldn’t even bear to be in the same room with him. Again, he managed to conceal his piercing heartache and kept his attention on Foy.

“What kinda moustache you looking to grow?” Foy asked, taking a couple of steps toward Albert.

“Um … a big one.” Albert suddenly had no clue at all why he’d even set foot in this place or what he’d hoped to accomplish. “The kind that … goes down below my mouth, and then along the edge of my jaw … and then, um … goes up and becomes my sideburns, and then becomes my hair.”

“A Möbius moustache,” said Foy without missing a beat.

“A Möbius moustache, yeah,” Albert responded, acting as if it had been on the tip of his tongue the whole time.

As if sensing Albert was in over his head, Foy doubled the condescension in his tone. “You know, that sort of moustache is a costly facial accessory.”

“Yeah,” said Albert with false assuredness.

“Well … you’re a sheep farmer.” Foy grinned a grin that made Albert wish cholera upon him.

Fuck it. “You feel good about what you’re doing?” Albert said, taking a step closer to the moustachier.

Foy appeared unbothered. “What am I doing?”

“Stealing a guy’s girlfriend?” Albert could feel his face getting red with both fury and embarrassment. “You able to sleep at night?”

“Hey, Louise dumped you, my friend. It’s not my fault she wanted someone with more to offer. I can give her a lavish home. Warm blankets. Wrapped candies. Can you say the same, Albert? Can you give Louise wrapped candies?”

Albert locked gazes with him for a moment. “Fuck you, man,” he blurted, knowing he’d lost this round and feeling dumb as a mule.

“Yeah, that’s what she’s doing,” Foy shot back, finishing the match. Albert stormed out of the moustachery in defeat, resolving never to return. Not to this establishment, and not to Old Stump. It was time to go.


That evening Edward sat patiently at a corner table in the Old Stump saloon, nursing a beer. He really wasn’t much of a drinker. Drinking, he supposed, was for the unhappy. For those who wished to block out the misery of their lives. Edward felt no such dissatisfaction. He derived great pleasure from his work as a cobbler, he adored his little apartment just above the workshop, and, most of all, he was over the moon with happiness in his blissful relationship with Ruth. He smiled to himself, knowing that in just a few minutes she’d be finished having sex with the pastor’s son upstairs in the brothel, and then she’d come bounding down those steps with a big kiss for her devoted boyfriend. He wanted to be sure he was church-sober for that sweet confection.