Enjoy!
Toys
dressed in the clothing of the mid-to-late-1800s walked along Main Street. All
around him were men dressed in chaps and boots who tipped their hats at each
other as they passed. Meanwhile the women who were clad in long dresses and
bonnets whispered to each other behind their hands as the Indian and human
passed them by. Tommy was surprised by the fact that many of the toys did not
have bases under their feet.
Tommy
craned his neck in all directions, trying to take in everything at once. They
passed a bright red corral which looked like a giant barn. The continual whinny
of horses and the lowing of cattle could be heard emanating from the inside. WHY-I-OUGHTA LIVESTOCK Co. was painted
in big brightly colored letters on a wooden sign over the entrance through
which Tommy met eyes with a white horse standing in its stall. Even though they
locked eyes only for a second, Tommy had the immediate feeling that he wanted
to ride that horse.
There
was another building that was set slightly behind the ones on either side of it
with a large fenced-off area in front of it. It was as if the wooden fence were
the structure’s arms and it was trying to pull itself forward so that it was in
line with the others. A monotonous metallic pounding clearly rang from the
fenced-off area, and as they passed Tommy saw an incredibly muscular man
steadily slamming a hammer down upon a red-hot piece of plastic.
Tommy
tapped Quick-Fox’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t the plastic melt if it got that hot?” he
asked, casting glances at the blacksmith. He read the sign nailed to the fence.
FORT WHY-I-OUGHTA PLASTICSMITH, it
read.
“No,”
Quick-Fox answered simply. “Plastic will melt if heated to certain point. But
plasticsmith is expert in field. If warmed just right, plastic will be moldable
without melting.”
Tommy’s
eyes goggled at all there was to see around him. He looked excitedly at the W.I.O. ARMORY where men were walking out
with rifles, muskets, pistols, and bandoliers of plastic bullets. He watched as
a red-colored cowboy spun the cylinder of a Colt .45 Peacemaker which made a
rapid click-click-click noise.
“Newest
model,” he said boastfully as a couple of other cowboys gazed upon it with
unabashed envy. “Can hit a buffalo straight through the eye at 250 inches.” He
expertly spun the gun on his index finger.
“Because
it needs to be the size of a buffalo for you
to hit it anywhere, Slick; never mind the eye!” one of the men guffawed
followed by a chorus of laughter at Slick’s expense who, if it was even
possible, looked even more red than before.
Quick-Fox
and Tommy trod past the OLDE FORT THEATER.
An amazingly intricate hand-carved marquee that advertised a show called PLASTICK IN MOTIONE was suspended over
the box-office and front doors.
“C’ain’t
wait to see the new show at this here the-a-ter,” a mustached gentleman was saying
to a pretty bonneted woman as they walked inside.
“Here’s
first stop,” Quick-Fox said, snapping Tommy away from his wandering eyes.
Want to read more? Keep an eye out for "The Great Toy War: Summer Camp"! Coming soon!
