In the heart of the rugged Wild West, beneath a vast, azure sky that stretched endlessly, a lone cowboy sat beside a crackling campfire. He was a nameless wanderer, his face hidden beneath the brim of a dusty, weathered Stetson hat. His attire was faded and worn, a testament to the countless miles he had trekked.

Surrounded by the desolate loneliness of the open range, the cowboy leaned against a large cracked rock. In one hand, he gripped a gleaming, well-worn blue pocketknife, a trusty companion that had seen its fair share of use. In the other hand, he held a perfectly round, crimson apple, slightly rotten and rubbery from it's time in the heat.

The man had already collected a pile of wood which were neatly stacked in front of him. With a simple snap his pointer finger had a small fire on it's tip, he leaned over and ignited the fire with a simple tap. Afterwards he shook his finger to extinguish the tiny flame in his hand

The fire cast flickering, golden light upon his rugged features, casting elongated shadows that danced around him. The prairie winds whispered to him as the flames crackled, and the distant howls of coyotes added to the enchanting ambiance of the Wild West.

With a practiced hand, the nameless cowboy began to peel the apple, its skin curling away in long, sinuous ribbons. His movements were deliberate, slow, and filled with a sense of quiet reverence. As the peel fell to the ground in a spiral, revealing the crisp, white flesh underneath, the cowboy's eyes glinted with a hint of satisfaction.

Once the apple was bared to its essence, the cowboy continued to work his knife's magic. With meticulous precision, he sliced the fruit into thin, uniform wedges. Each slice revealed a perfect, star-like core at its center, as if the cowboy had practiced this motion daily.

The scent of the rotten apple wafted through the air, mingling with the smoky aroma of the campfire. The cowboy skewered a slice of apple onto the tip of his knife, then leaned closer to the fire, roasting it gently in the open flames until it caramelized to a golden hue. He brought the warm, caramelized apple to his lips, savoring its sweet, smoky flavor.

As he chewed, his eyes never left the fire, and he let the taste of the Wild West linger on his palate. The desert landscape, the lonely tree, the nameless cowboy, and his simple yet artful act of peeling and roasting an apple epitomized the raw, untamed beauty of the Wild West, where a man could find solace and sustenance in the simplest of pleasures.

But sadly life never was simple as a loud chorus of galloping horses slowly approached the simple cowboy. He sighed as he kicked up some dust on the fire to extinguish it. He reached to his side and pulled out his trusty revolver, it's enchanting shine caused the man to smile as he checked the cylinder to see it only had two red bullets in the chamber. The man shook his head as he smoothly put the cylinder back in the gun. He then looked to his left to see three menacing silhouettes emerging on the horizon, galloping towards him in a cloud of dust and chaos. The sun glinted off their revolvers, and it was clear they meant trouble.. 

The man pulled his revolver to his eyes and aimed at the group. He spoke softly to himself

"Around fifty meters"

The metallic clap of the pistol's hammer echoed through the desolate landscape. The howls of the hyena were temporarily drowned out the the pistol's thunderous gunshot. From the tip of his barrel was a burst of fire as the bullet hurtled towards the group,  from the bullet a streak of fire followed suit resembling that of a spark from a campfire. His shot was unwavering as it struck one of the horseman's arm. 

From the entry of the bullet the horseman's clothes broke out into flames, the horseman's waived his arms in fright as the sparks from the fire caused the horses to scatter and tossing off their riders in the process. The men helped the burning man remove his clothes and pulled him to his feet but when they turned their pistols in the direction of the cowboy but to their dismay he had already fled.

The cowboy ran through the vast desert, each heavy stepped was muffled by the layers of sand, he let out a loud laugh contrary to his nature from earlier, he wiped his forehead with his palm as he never stopped his trot, after all he had to preserve his last shot. The cowboy looked at his trusty six-shooter which still was steaming. The man raised his gun close to his face as he gave it a simple puff of wind to cool it down. 

The man then gave his gun a twirl as he placed it back into it's holster for use another day, despite his jolly act he remained vigilant as he darted through the desert. His story was far from over, actually it was just the beginning.

MediocreBob

Ya boy found inspiration at 2:20 let's gooo!