Omicron Artifact Repository

Wide diorama shot. A masking tape tumbleweed rolls across sandpaper street, pulled by a visible string. VO: "Where the whiskey is cheap and the sun is taped on."

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Tex, a cardboard cutout on a popsicle stick, slides into frame from the left. He bumps slightly as the stick catches on sandpaper.

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Macro on Tex's sharpie-drawn face. Cardboard texture fully visible. VO: "Two dimensions of pure, unadulterated justice." Tex: "I reckon this town needs a good sweeping."

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Bart appears from behind the toilet-paper-roll water trough, leaning at his characteristic 15-degree villain angle. VO: "This is Black Bart. Evil never looked so frayed."

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Both cutouts face each other across the sandpaper street. The masking tape tumbleweed makes another pass.

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Close-up on Tex's angular jaw. Dialogue: "This town ain't big enough for the two of us, Bart." The tinny speaker crackles.

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Bart's frayed mustache fills the frame. Dialogue: "You've tracked me across three different shoeboxes, Tex. But this is where the cardboard ends."

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Both cutouts motionless. Stage lights cast dramatic shadows across the corrugated saloon. The guitar riff tightens.

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Insert shot of the paper plate clock on the bank building — numbers scrawled in crayon, ticking toward high noon.

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Tex's brass-fastened arm hovers near his cardboard holster. A slight squeak from the brad.

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Bart's arm trembles — the puppet master's hand shaking slightly below the diorama stage.

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A slow, stately second pass of the masking tape tumbleweed. This time it sticks briefly to the sandpaper. Someone yanks it free off-screen.

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Two dots of unblinking sharpie ink. The entire universe reduced to this moment of cardboard confrontation.

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VO: "Somewhere between the craft store and this sandpaper street, two heroes of corrugated cardboard found their destiny."

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Wide shot. In the background, the construction paper sun sags almost imperceptibly. The masking tape begins to yield.

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The yellow construction paper sun peels from the poster-board sky in slow motion and lands between the two duelists with a muted smack. Music abruptly stops.

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The sound of scrambling beneath the table. The music stops. A muffled voice: "Hold on, hold on, technical difficulties."

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An oversized human hand reaches in from above, grasping the fallen sun. It knocks over the toilet-paper-roll water trough en route.

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The trough rolls across the sandpaper, bumps into Black Bart, spinning him 180 degrees to face the saloon instead of Tex.

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The hand smacks the sun haphazardly back onto the sky — noticeably lower and tilted. Dustville now has the ambiance of apocalyptic late afternoon.

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The hand descends again, spins Bart back into position. "Okay, we're good. Action." Music swells — slightly too loud. Tex and Bart resume their stare.

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Wide shot. The sun continues its slow droop. Tex and Bart face each other, but the sun looms in the background, a monument to impermanence.

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"As I was sayin'," Tex's voice booms from the speaker. "Draw your weapon, Bart." "With pleasure," Bart growls.

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A flurry of cardboard and marker. Both brass-fastened arms swing toward their holsters.

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Bart's arm catches on the edge of his own ragged cutout. The puppet master yanks. The entire villain shudders violently.

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With a sickening rip, Bart's arm tears free from the brass brad entirely. The cardboard limb, still clutching its drawn weapon, goes flying.

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The arm lands softly near the saloon doors. Silence descends upon Dustville. Even the guitar riff pauses in confusion.

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"Well," Tex's voice crackles from the speaker, "that's... unfortunate." He faces a one-armed villain with a drawn weapon.

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The hand descends, picks up the severed arm, fumbles with the tiny brass brad, and finally mashes it back with a fresh wad of masking tape.

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Bart now sports an arm fixed at an unnatural angle, pointing straight up toward the drooping sun. "I can still fight," his gravelly voice insists.

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The brass brad squeaks as Tex's arm comes down. "Look, Bart. My heart just ain't in it anymore. Not like this."

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Both cutouts stand in the tilted afternoon light. The melancholy harmonica begins. They are just cardboard, fragile and at the mercy of a clumsy god.

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The popsicle stick scrapes a slow, melancholy rhythm against sandpaper. Tex heads toward the edge of the stage.

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Bart stands alone in Dustville, arm raised to the heavens in a silent plea for better adhesive. The lights slowly fade. Credits.

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