He walked away from his interview with light yet confident steps, probably feeling certain that he had nailed the interview. The truth is that he did nail the interview, and I was extremely inclined to give him the job here at the Cactus Creek as a server. I chuckled to myself whilst looking down at his application because he dramatically exited the restaurant by swinging open the kitschy saloon-style doors like a cowboy from the golden years of the wild and untamed west. The name “Reno Dakota” was scribbled in the box marked “NAME” on his application. When I questioned him about his real name, he made a gun out of his hand, pointed his index and middle fingers at me with his thumb cocked and ready to shoot, and told me in one quick deadpan expression, “You never question a cowboy’s name.” He then winked at me, so I smiled and simply left it at that, moving on to the usual interview questions. I had all his other information: I would find it out sooner or later. For now, Reno Dakota sufficed as a name for that rugged young stud. He answered the other questions in a similarly odd fashion, but not so odd that it was a turn-off; instead, his sly, slightly evasive, playful, and mysterious answers and manner of talking made him all the more endearing. Unlike the countless interviews before him, his was interesting and worth my time. I didn’t have any doubts about hiring him then.

“I’m from Texas,” were the first words out of his mouth when he crashed through the saloon doors again, his arms spread outward like a pair of wings that had been baking on the pavement in the hot July sun for a few weeks.

His sudden and pervasive second entrance only moments after he had left took me by surprise initially, but I soon regained my composure and managed to say, “Well, that’s good to know…Reno, is it?” He stayed quiet for a few moments after my awkward statement settled into the air. He was apparently in a deep thought process about his name. I took advantage of the empty time and attempted to get a better look at him. The table obscured him during most of the interview, so I was unable to get a good look at his lower half; that’s not to say the top half wasn’t worth its salt as well. He dressed in the Western-style clothing recommended for the servers at the Cactus Creek, though with a bit more flare—a small red and white cowboy shirt with snaps that barely contained his pecs, abs, and massive shoulders; tight denim pants that made a perfectly oval-shaped package around his cock; a belt-buckle with a gold-encrusted Eagle holding a revolver in its mouth, wearing a cowboy hat, and riding a horse, the reigns controlled by the tips of its wings. The belt buckle mesmerized me for a short time, but I eventually moved on to his burly thighs that were as thick and strong as a stud horse’s. I couldn’t help but conjecture that his thighs weren’t the only parts of his body built like a horse. He topped off his western threads with snakeskin cowboy boots, complete with round, serrated spurs. The only thing he lacked was chaps and the cowboy hat, which I suppose he left at home to be polite.