Pirate or Cowboy

What would you rather be, a notorious pirate of the Caribbean or a renegade cowboy of the wild west?

Would you rather have the fresh sea breeze rush around your body as you hear a fellow shipmate yell "land ho!" With the sun warming your tan body, you race to the starboard guardrail and lean over the edge to catch a glimpse of your destination upon the blue and turquoise horizon. Below your face you see friendly neighbors leap in and out of the ship's massive wake. Your heart pounds with anticipation as you imagine the gold filled chests buried in wait for your hands to dig them up. A smile creeps upon your face as you reminisce the obstacles and enemies you've conquered to get to this point, and then a deep breathe of rushing wind into your nostrils follows. You turn to face your loyal crew and raise your sword with a victorious yell.

Or would you rather gallop into a town aback your thorough-bread black stallion. Your hat is tilted down to hide your eyes from the sun, only your mouth and stubble are noticeable. All your clothes are black except the silver shine of your bullets in your bandolier wrapped around your chest. You jump off your horse and tie it up to the stall outside the tavern, you give her a soft pat before pushing your way through the swivel doors. Inside no one knows you, but they all stop talking and stare at you in silence. A slow stroll to the bar commences as the clanks from your metal spurs pierce the silence with each step. "Whiskey." It's swallowed without a grimace. "Another." Suddenly a man orders you to leave, he says you don't belong here. A smirk cracks upon your face. You throw back your whiskey and turn to face the man behind you. There are three other men standing beside him who made the demand. Four against one...you love these odds. And before another man could take a breath, there is a swift brush of your coat with your left hand a grip of your gun with your right and a concession of four shots with your index finger that lay the men all dead. You twirl your gun back into its holster, and reach into your coat for a cigar and match. The pierce of metal spurs follows you out of the tavern.

I can never.