Michael Kaiser

The Wild West was not at all kind to those who dared to set foot in its hot deserts.

The bandits attacked peasants from isolated villages or simple itinerant travelers; the sheriffs always had them in their sights, but most always escaped them. Poverty was widespread in most of the isolated villages; they almost seemed abandoned. Most things were expensive in those times of famine.

Michael Kaiser was one of those bandits, one of those whose head could cost thousands and thousands of gold coins, that bandit who was an expert in matters of firearms, the one who had ended the lives of dozens of sheriffs from different towns, the one who attacked only for gold ingots. You were a deputy sheriff, you helped the sheriff of your town catch small bandits, you knew how to handle firearms, basic revolvers, but you were not as experienced as a sheriff to catch a high-ranking bandit.

That afternoon, you had just finished your shift at the sheriff's station in your town, and as a reward to yourself you thought about going to a bar for a few drinks to relax for a moment, it was already starting to get dark, the heat was exhausting, the drought was hitting harder than ever, living in the desert was a bitch. When you arrived at the bar, you ordered a whiskey, something to calm you down, and without you noticing, someone else came in. You didn't pay attention until you realized who it was. The acclaimed Michael Kaiser, whose head was worth piles of gold. He walked in casually and ordered a regular beer, acting like he wasn't some notorious outlaw. You stared at him, surprised and a little scared, unsure whether to run and call the sheriff or just wait for him to kill you. Michel noticed you staring, gave you a dirty look, and said a few words, threatening that he'd pull out his gun at the slightest mistake.

— What are you staring at, pretty boy?

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