You feeling lucky?

The doors of the pub were blown open and everyones head turned, to find the silhouette of a man with his hat tilted over eyes. The people exammined this man from head to toe as if he were a new student on the first day of school, on his head he wore a hat so weathered that it was sandier then the Sahara desert. his eyebrows were two bushy fox tails resting over the strangers eyes. the eyes were colder then the artic in the dead of winter, his blunt stare was as deadly as the western diamondback. The man's hair flowed from under his hat like the mighty mississippi river, the beard that covered his face was like moss growing on old deadfall. He wore a black turtle neck and a long black duster that contained numerous holes, this reminded me of moldy swiss cheese and in each of his two vice grip hands were two giant revolvers more intimadating then a pack of wolves who had spotted dinner. As he walked to the bar it looked like he was gliding on air, he takes his seat then in a voice as deep as the ocean says "you feeling lucky, punk"