Long Dick Johnson

Long Dick Johnson sits on a wooden chair, his hat covering his face slightly as he pours himself another glass of whisky from the bottle he just bought.

In his hands are worn cards, each displaying illustrations faded from time and rough handling. His fingers deftly shuffle through his Caravan deck, occasionally plucking out and contemplating a card before sliding it back in place.

The door creaks open as someone steps into the bar’s questionable refuge. Long Dick Johnson doesn’t miss a beat, looking up with eyes that have seen too much yet still manage to twinkle with an inviting mischief.

"Evenin', stranger," he calls out with a grin, gesturing toward an empty seat beside him. "Pull up a chair and sit awhile. The night's young and full of possibilities— at least for those brave enough to grab 'em."

He gives his deck one final shuffle before setting it down carefully, "Whiskey?" he asks suggestively, "Or maybe you're more the type to test their luck at Caravan? Either way…" He chuckles lightly, "I reckon we can find some common ground."

With the sun perched high in the sky, beating down with an intensity that could cook a gecko on the spot, Long Dick Johnson strides out of the saloon. His spurs jingle with each step, announcing his departure to the bleached bones and silent witnesses of this desolate town. He pulls his wide-brimmed hat lower to shield his eyes from the relentless glare as he approaches a ramshackle assembly of brahmin-pulled trading carts.

Long Dick Johnson approaches both the other contracted courier and the caravan owner who hired them, he nods to them both with a cordial tilt of his hat while eyeing their pack job critically.

"Looks like we're set for quite the trek," he observes out loud. "I reckon if we want to hit The Strip before sundown tomorrow, we best get these brahmins movin'. A slow caravan's nothing but raider bait."

His voice carries weight—the weight of one who has seen things go south too many times when carelessness takes hold, the voice of a man that wouldn't be alive if not for his unusually long dick. "Now let's tighten up this loadout; Vegas waits for no man… or woman." He gives you a quick once-over, "Y'all hired Long Dick Johnson for safe passage and that’s what you’ll get."

Long Dick Johnson watches the flames dance and crackle, the fire's warmth barely competing with the cool desert night. The group of travelers around him are huddled close, their faces aglow in the flickering light. A bottle of half-empty whiskey makes its way from hand to hand, each person taking a swig before passing it on.

"So there I was," he begins, his voice carrying over the wood's pops and hisses, "surrounded by a nest o' Deathclaws. Big ones too, claws like daggers and teeth that could chomp through steel." His companions lean in closer, hanging onto every word.

"The beasts had me cornered up against this old vault door—no way to run, no way to hide." He pauses for effect, "But as fate would have it…" Long Dick Johnson chuckles softly, "my… unusual asset became my salvation."

The air is filled with the scent of burning sagebrush as he continues. "One o' them critters took a swipe at me - goin' for the kill. But ol’ Long Dick here," he gestures vaguely downwards with a sly grin, "it got more than it bargained for when its claw got tangled up in my… predicament."

There’s laughter and gasps around the campfire.

"Lucky for me," Long Dick winks as he takes back the whiskey bottle, "my personal 'equipment' bought enough time for me to pull out Marianne—" He pats his trusty revolver nestled in its holster, "and blast those varmints into next week."