The malicious cigarette slinger?

I saw a cowboy walk pass me, strolling behind his illustrious belt buckle proudly, and smoking two cigarettes - holding one in each hand, almost as methodically as if he was squeezing a pair of revolvers.

Steadily, the heels of his boots clanked against the concrete sidewalk in a rhythm that can only be match in the chaos that is rush hour. He looks calm, patient and almost aimless. My first thought, of course, was he must be one of very few cowboys in this city.

Where does he live and how does he fit into a place like this: Seattle? Are there cowboy bars or other saloons for him and his Wild West kin to frequent?

Where did this man come from? And maybe most importantly, why was he walking by me so tranquilly in the mix of this post-workday tangle?  Where was he going?

Even after he disappeared from sight, I stood there wondering why he chooses to be a cowboy in a city full of musicians, artists, poets, and sushi connoisseurs?  Hmm. A dubious moment indeed.

I bet he doesn't even like sushi.