Fellers, I didn't come here all the way from Cheyenne just to fart into a saddle. This is a good, honest town. A small town. These are good people. Good, Christian people, full of lobster ravioli. I've been keeping the peace in this town for 35 years. I built a house here, right by the river, with my own bare hands. My wife is buried here, right behind that house, where she caught me kissing the horses. It's a common affliction, horse-madness. Makes you fall in love with 'em. I'm cured now. I don't do that stuff anymore. 

In my 35 years, I have never tolerated any trouble. That's why we've never had any. And I'll be goddamned if we get any still. 

Everywhere I look these days, the debauchery of these journalists is poisoning the minds of honest, street-country folk. Publishers like SaddleFlashing and Harold and Cyraxx, malfeasants, sensationalists, fornicators. I'm sure they're doing things with their horses you couldn't imagine. Perverts. I haven't imagined it in years. I don't do that stuff anymore. 

So let me REMIND all of you who appear to have missed the great big sign outside town: all travelers are required to hand in any typewriters, newsboy hats, press armbands, pencils, and notepads on their person to the deputies of the Street Sheriff's office upon entering city limits. You may pick up your belongings when you leave The Streets.

I would like to THANK Gillian, a former newspaper editor who has reformed her ways and refused to publish any new editions, for setting the example we all need to see during these times. You'll find that there is nothing like time amongst the salt of the earth to set someone on a righteous path. 

If anyone needs to see me, I'll be in my office.

Vinny walks out to the streets with his head held high and a scroll in his left hand. He stops in front of the StreetSheriff and unfurls the scroll and begins to read loudly...

"It is hereby ordered on this day, on the 12,834th meeting of The Mafia Newspaper and Basketball Oversight Committee, that we shall fully endorse the work of StreetSheriff and his duty to ensure that the streets remain safe from the peripheral violence surrounding the recent surge in street journalists."

"So sayeth the Grand Bullfrog. So let it be written. So let it be done."

Vinny lights a match and burns the scroll, then walks back to the dark alley from where he came...

Too many newspapers.  Don't dare add to the quagmire, Gillian.  Absurd what you've done here 

As the head of the "Badminton and Impulse Purchases at the Grocery Store and Too Many Newspapers Committee" I shall grant Gillian her ability to publish her newspaper with the express written consent of Gigantopithecus and The Mafia Newspaper and Basketball Oversight Committee.

I wish to pay any fees and fill out any documents associated with such a publication.

Gillian's newspaper will be the only sanctioned newspaper in our great nation.

It is all well and good sanctioning something, Transistor, but you should really exercise caution. I have it on good authority that Gillian often doesn't wash, even a couple of days in a row sometimes before she heads out to lunch. She also struggles with the menu when she arrives, and needs help choosing what to eat (lobster ravioli every time and she still forgets). Deadlines are imposed and forgotten just as quickly. We were expecting her paper on Monday, which was still plenty of time after the mysterious $1,660,000 retainer was paid and yet it remains unpublished. Is that really the type of pseudo editor you wish to endorse when there are so many others around with a more proven track record? Take me for example, the most senior newsman on the Streets or TommyVitale, two issues deep and busting the little-known Durden War case wide open. Don't be too hasty in backing the wrong horse. You might find StreetSheriff trying to kiss it.

I've spent all afternoon sawing wood, fellers. I'm building a front porch for my little prairie house down yonder by them fields. I'm looking forward to the day I can stand on that porch, lean against the railing as I look out over my Streets, and not hear the caterwauling of a group of wobble-jawed journalists losing their damn minds about lobster ravioli.

I need y'all to think of the Streets as a horse. A strong, shapely body. A tight, muscular haunch. Delicate, windswept hair. A smile that could light up a room. A majestic beast, that you care for in ways public and private. You wouldn't scribble a buncha hogwash about Durdens and 1.6m dollar newspaper frauds on the side of a horse. You wouldn't put 5 newspaper editors all up on a horses back at the same time. It ain't romantic. It ain't gentlemanly.

I'm looking to keep the peace in this town and if you fellers continue to make nuisances of yourselves, I'm going to have to shut these operations down, regardless of the sanctioning and unsanctioning of Transistor's whims and fancies. There's a reason I'm sheriff of these Streets and he ain't. I am an unfeeling man. I am not swayed by the emotional flights of fancy of which normal men are prone. I am an island. I live a solitary life. My wife is buried in my backyard and my horse sleeps on her side of the bed, just to keep it balanced like I'm used to, otherwise I'd be all out of sorts and not get no sleep. 

I would also like to extend my thanks to Gigantopithecus for the added support and resources made available to the local sheriff's office. Though he melted into the shadows like a benevolent phantom after offering his endorsement, I'd like to deputize him as a special consultant to the sheriff, specifically in acts of beating the brakes off malfeasant mafia media members, confiscating and/or destroying their equipment and throwing them out of town with a comical pendulum swinging motion, like tossing a cut log. 

I've seen the current crop of Journalists and agree that something must be done to keep them in line. What exactly it is I'm not sure of yet (definitely not Gigantopithecus' dysfunctional bunch (no, not his testicles)) but something.

I feel like StreetSheriff might be on the right track here, though I find him calling me and other Journalists "Sensualists" in his opening statement to be a bit misguided, and I think your proposal of confiscating my pencils both a pointless and futile exercise. You'll never be able to find all of them, pony boy.

Don't let your "hors d'oeuvres" turn into a "horse divorce" now, buddy.

What in the god damn hell are you talking about, Harold, you have got too much damn mustard in your britches, I swear to God I'm about to lose my damn mind. Is that French? This is a God-fearing, Christian town, we do not speak in tongues here, and I'll be pulling you out to the city limits by the stick I've got lodged into your behind if you don't shape up god damnit. I swear to God I will boil you up like sheep dip if I hear so much as a lick of your city-slickin' Satanist media-talk before I've cooled down again.