Listen up, pilgrim. Gun guru or gun geezer, you're never gonna escape your Muse. Not even when you gotta go in the middle of the night. That's when you get your best ideas, right? Are we on the same cayuse? If you're lucky, you might be ambushed with a question like this: "How would an aurally challenged child hear a famous story told by an orally challenged parent?"

Didn't know you could muse like that, huh? That's Why They Call It The Muse (you're humming that tune, aren't you). Hi-ho, LaLa Land, and away!

Once upon a time in the American West there rode a champion of life, liberty, and the pursuit of aggrandizement: The Loan Arranger! (ta ta da, ta ta da, ta ta da, etc.) A recent immigrant, he had one friend: a Native American named Pronto. Pronto, only survivor of a Michigan tribe, found a kindred spirit in The Loan Arranger!, only survivor of a six-person financial security start-up called . . . The Taxes Arrangers!

The Loan Arranger! was looking for a new schtick after his family's silver mine convenience store generated too many silver bullets for a bear market. They had done fine until werewolves were added to the list of endangered species. One day, as The Loan Arranger! sashayed around his prairie dog farm, he brandished his trusty silver-plated 45-70 to save an albino unicorn from being gored by The Last American Buffalo (aka Bison).

In gratitude, the hitherto unridden unicorn volunteered to solve The Loan Arranger!'s mobility issue, a prevalent problem in The Great American West. "Seriously?" mused The Loan Arranger. "Only if you lose that horn. Too gnarly for good deed work, except maybe on foreclosures." Ever the grammarian pedant, The Loan Arranger! added, "Now maybe you appreciate the value of a hyphen!"

Instinctively, The Loan Arranger! named his mod horse Whitey. Pronto warned The Loan Arranger! it might not be a good idea to ride around shouting "Hi-Ho, Whitey! Away!" Thus, The Loan Arranger! exercised his option to call the albino Silver, after his struggling family's silver mine. Or family's struggling silver mine. Whatever, activation was trickier. After researching several options, including "Hi-Yo, Silver!" and "Heigh-Ho, Silver," The Loan Arranger! settled on "Hi-Ho, Silver," because it reminded him of a favorite pastry. A century and Civil War later, devotees were still arguing the validity of Hi-Ho versus Hi-Yo.

Pronto's horse, who upon seeing Silver became the original jealous nag, was potentially embarrassing to their carefully crafted image. Torn between being politically correct and responsive to low class humor, The Loan Arranger! reluctantly agreed that the paint (i.e., horse breed) could respond to "Git-um up, Scout," as long as the phrase was not repeated in a prayerful tone. Fortunately the fancy Eastern term "erectile dysfunction" had yet to cross the Missouri River.

The PCP (Politically Correct Pairs) initial public offering was a ride-by pro bono to help some in-a-snit people confront reservations about fabled starry nights being polluted by unsolicited smoke signals. It got personal right after Happy Hour, when they looked up and could no longer see the light of a single, presumably still twinkling, bar.

The Loan Arranger! and Pronto soon found their niches, which contrary to legend were not on their revolver handles. Eventually they became popular even with the hanging judges in spite of their prenuptial agreement to not shoot to kill anyone, even scalpers and inside traders. As proof, The Lone Arranger! traded his 33 silver bullets and twin Colt .45 silver and ivory (you wish) single action revolvers into a flock of silver pullets that he stuffed two at a time into his almost to-die-for Stygian black leather hip hugger holster rig.

"Quitcher squawking!" were the last words miscreants would hear before succumbing to a blizzard of beaks and feathers. Quickly his poultry became as revered as the mask The Loan Arranger! wore to remain anonymous in saloon chat rooms.

Nevertheless, even as his good deeds set record high margins, The Loan Arranger! confused beneficiaries by leaving behind just one silver pullet no matter how large or hungry the crowd. This resulted in the first communications audit even though The Lone Arranger! was a stickler for proper English and the American way. Frontier folk, however, were sticklers for at least one pullet per person. They were not impressed by misplaced modifiers and the only thing they expected to see dangling was not a participle.

Nor, as they squinted into the smog of substantially ungovernable unknown caller smoke signals, could the younger generation fathom their chicken-flinging folk hero. Action oriented but bliss seeking, the sons of the pioneers fought to stay goal-oriented amid such distractions as roadrunners and wily peyote. Their highest compliment was to grasp a forearm and conspiratorially grin, "Kemosabe!" (Meaning, chemically savvy).

In contrast, the daughters of the pioneers knew a good thing when they saw it. Their enthusiastic reaction to The Loan Arranger! was censored by the few prim local elders who could scribble down what they thought they heard. To ensure the most widespread general circulation, closing credits for each of the The Loan Arranger's good deeds and sunset exits were distilled into this bland blend of schlock and aw: (1) Who was that masked man? (2) I wanted to thank him!

WARNING, R-RATED! (Persons younger than 18 years of age must rip off and discard the following paragraph without reading)

Several thousand breathtaking Western sunsets later, after all the lucrative follow-on The Loan Arranger! TV series and movies were harvested, a recycled grizzly sidekick stumbled over a fossilized lipstick-tinted joint revealing the original double barreled shock and awe: (1) How was that masked man? (2) I wanted to wank him!

(Editor: Is that your best shot? Did the black ink cartridge run dry?)

(Wynn: You should see the endings I threw away.)

(Editor: Just because a dictionary has three dozen meanings for a word doesn't mean you have to try them all.)

(Wynn: Yes I do because a person's reach should exceed his or her grasp or what's a heaven for?)

(Editor: Ha, well Donne!)

(Wynn: Actually, Browning.)

(Editor: That's no pun.)