Clint Deadwood rode into town on his ageing burro, his cowboy boots scraping along the dusty ground as his mini-steed buckled and brayed at the excessive weight of its rider. Yes, time had not been to kind to the Man With No Waistline, and Clint was now hungry to prove to himself that he still had what it took to be a GameSlinger.

The word was out that there had been some cheatin’ and a disrespectin’ at the Texas/Mexico border town of Iyza Down. Down at the end of the main street he could see the forlorn bingo Hall with its faded grandeur, and realised that there were bad elements in this town that were bleeding the populace of their fun and spare cash. This was why he had been hired.

As he approached the building, he noticed three GameSlingers leaning against the façade, chewing ‘baccy and eyeing him scornfully. They then started laughing at him. Clint dismounted (or rather slid over the head of his burro) and threw back his poncho. “Is you laughing at my mule” Clint asked? “No..” replied one of the critters eyeing him, “we laughing because one of your chaps is longer than the other… and because there’s no way you gonna stop us fixing this town of its Bingo!”.

Quick as a flash, Clint reached behind into his saddlebag and threw three Bingo balls in the air, then drew his suckered dart gun, and promptly bagged each ball with a well aimed dart. “I think you’ll find that’s Legs Eleven. Two Little Ducks, and Kelly’s Eye”.  Sure enough, there on the floor with a dart attached to each were the numbers 11, 22 and 1.

“We don’t want no trouble Mister” ventured one of the GameSlingers.. “We run a clean game of Bingo here!”.

Clint brushed past him and entered the grand Ol Opry Bingo Hall, spitting a wad of chewed baccy that hit the bell above the door- “P’ting!”.

Inside, he went straight to the Bingo randomiser blower machine and kicked it onto the floor. It was quite obvious there was something wrong. At least half a dozen of the balls had the number “91” on it- odd for a game where the numbers go from 1-90. By now the townsfolk had come in and had realised why it was they never seemed to win a game of Bingo, and that the three GameSlingers always seemed to be taking the pot.

“We can take it over from here Clint!” said a town elder-we ain’t gonna get suckered any more by bent Bingo, and then they ran the three baddies out of town.

“Figure I might stay for one game of Bingo myself” said Clint.  “Sorry” said the town spokesman, “you gotta be a member, and in any case, pensioner Bingo is not till Saturday!”   The burro started laughing, and Clint gathered up as much of his dignity as he could, and slunk out of town.

His last words, muttered under his breath were “Me thinks me gonna give up this land-based Bingo malarkey and go online instead!”