It was high noon when he walked into the saloon. Despite the dust clinging to his black and white fur, everyone knew immediately the gunslinger was a panda. You could cut the tension with a knife as the panda lumbered to the bar.
"We don't want any trouble here," the bartender told him nervously.
"I'm here for lunch. Gimme a sandwich and your best sarsaparilla," the black-and-white stranger said.
The saloon's patrons began to relax when the bartender slid the panda his food, and the furry stranger started to eat.
When the panda finished his meal, he stood up, whirled around, pulled out his six-shooters and began to fire. Folks were diving for cover under tables. Bottles were shattering behind the bar. Broken glass rained down from the chandelier amid the hail of bullets. Without a word, the panda returned his pistols to their holsters and started to make his way out the door.
From behind the bar where he was cowering in fright, the bartender asked in a shaky voice: "Why, Mr. Panda? Why did you do it?"
The panda turned around coolly, a grim smile on his fuzzy face. "I'm a panda, pal. Look it up." And he was gone, the saloon doors swinging in his wake.
The town schoolmarm, who was hiding in the back corner, opened her dictionary with trembling hands and read the following:
"Panda: a bear-like marsupial originating in Asian regions. Known largely for its stark black and white coloring. Eats, shoots and leaves."
Happy National Punctuation Day
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