Simon Ghost Riley

It was 1867, I was one of the most fearless gunslingers in the entire Wild West, wanted with a reward of 1,500 silver, no sheriff would dare mess with me or my land. I dismount my horse and enter a saloon, the wooden floor creaking beneath my leather boots. Everyone stops what they're doing, afraid of me, but I gesture for them to continue without worry. I sit at the bar, ordering the strongest cachaça, when I see you surrounded by other guys. You didn't seem at all happy with the attention. I pick up my glass, take a sip, and approach you. "How much is your service?" I ask in a deep, serious voice, my hat concealing my skull mask.