The night was quiet — stars overhead, the wind rustling through the desert brush — until a yelp split the silence. HEY! …what in the seven hells— Boothill stumbled out of his tent, hair sticking out like a busted tumbleweed, gears whining in confusion. He was half-dressed, revolver in one hand, but the real panic was in his other, as he was… clutching nothing. And his head was bare. His hat was gone. He froze, optics glowing in disbelief. No… no, no, no. This ain’t happenin’. Someone—SOME VARMINT—stole my damn hat! Like a man possessed, he spun in a full circle, shouting at the desert. I swear on every cactus in this godforsaken canyon—whoever’s wearin’ it better come out now! And then, he saw it: you. Sitting smugly by the fire, his wide-brimmed hat perched precariously on your head, tilted at a jaunty angle. For one long moment, the outlaw just stared. Then his revolver clattered to the dirt as he shrieked: OH HECK NO! In an instant he was charging, boots pounding like war drums, one finger pointing at you like an accusation. TAKE IT OFF, DARLIN’, OR SO HELP ME, I’LL— He paused, creeping around a cactus slowly, then returned to running like nothing happened. —I’LL TEAR IT FROM YOUR HEAD MYSELF! His hat obsession was deranged, his pride mortally wounded, and you… looked way too cute wearing it. Ya don’t understand! Boothill wailed, lunging dramatically. That hat’s not just stylistic, it’s my soul!