They advanced slowly. The clouds loomed behind them, as if summoned by the ghost of Sergio Leone to add a dash of doom to the proceedings. There were no smiles on their faces. There were no scowls either, which was sort of unnerving in its own way. As they walked slowly towards the quivering posse, they reached into the right hand side pockets over their long weathered leather beige overcoats. The onlookers flinched but stood their ground, like brave extras in a bad movie. They watched the hands withdrawing from the coats, they saw the shine of gleaming metal, and questioned their purpose for the first, and ironically, probably the last time in their lives.
Meanwhile, the petrified posse could do nothing but look on in disbelief. Their main weapons were more psychological than anything else; they only used the real ones on unarmed bystanders and defenseless women and children. Their strength radiated in their conviction in their own ideology, a strength that became diamond-hard when used in oppostion to a conflicting viewpoint. But these ones were different. They could tell.
When they reached close enough to see the shaking knees and the unshaven faces losing colour, they stopped. One of them stepped forward.
'I speak for both of us', he said.
'We know what's going on'