You whip out your pistol and fire. Nothing happens. Er. That’s not right. You peer down the barrel. Yep. Still loaded. Oh, no, wait. There’s some gunk in the hammer. Again.

You whip out your other pistol and fire – bang! – and plant a bullet right in the weasel little cowboy’s head. Oh yeah, you still got it. As he drops and the trolleys careen out of control across the road you turn away, already reloading. This you’ve learned – never, ever, never, EVER reload later. Especially not with a gunked-up second.

Once you’re securely armed again, you cross the street, picking the crusty bits out of your contaminated pistol. You’re nearly at the door of the supermarket when something latches onto your ankle.

It’s another cowboy. Who is also dead, quite obviously so. You can tell from all the bits sticking out, and the fact that it is pinned, quite literally, to the wall by twisted trolley wreckage. This cowboy lets out a terribly, mindless and chilling moan.

“Braaaaaaaaaaaaaains.”

a. Arrrr!

b. My name isn’t “Brian”, you’ve got the wrong pirate!

c. Shoot the limey little landlubber.