A dusty old gunslinger enters a dusty old bar, manned by a dusty old barkeep.
Barkeep (dusting the dust off his shoulders): What can I do you for, mister?
Gunslinger: A milk, 2%, and make sure it’s fresh.
The barkeep bends over to reach inside his Fridge to the Future and pulls out a pristine carton of milk, beautiful in its elegance, racist in its colour.
Barkeep: That’ll be two dollars, and a piece of your everlasting soul, please.
Gunslinger: No wonder you’re the only place in town.
Gunslinger fires his piece and takes out the barkeep, blood everywhere, and drains the milk in one drink. He turns to leave but catches a glimpse of holy light emitting from the Fridge to the Future in the saloon mirror by the door. The gunslinger jumps over the bar, and opening the small fridge door, his face painted in white light, flashing across his crazy, obsessive eyes, he crawls into the fridge and closes the door behind him. When the gunslinger opens his eyes, he is a cow somewhere in the mid-west United States, having his udders groped by a tanned-faced man, with very, very, calloused fingers, and an unexplained grin.