Host: Felicitations and greetings from this cavern of canvasses, dedicated and devoted to bringing you art lovers a few in-depth probes through the crust of the not-quite-real, the almost real, and the frankly and flagrantly unreal. Pictures, paintings, portraits rendered onto canvas with brush and sometimes claw. Item number one - In a $12.50 pine box reposes the body of a Frontier Frankie. Armed but disarming. A victim of an Old West philosophy that any man with a good eye, a limber finger, and a well-honed trigger skirts the pastures of immortality. But this chap found out the hard way that immortality is a wish, a word, but infrequently a reality. He awaits your pleasure in a painting we call The Waiting Room.

Soames: I happen to be a... physician. I can tell you unequivocally the net result of a shotgun well-aimed at the back of a man's head. Instantaneous death. Mr. McKinley has no need of anything right now, except one shovel, one gravedigger, two strong men to tote a pine box, and six feet of earth.

Sam Dichter: I'll make the assumption you don't know who you're talking to.
Joe Bristol: That's a dead-wrong assumption. I thought we made it clear to you, we know who you are. You're Sam Dichter, who fancies himself Lord of the Gun.
Abe Bennett: As we all did, once.
Joe Bristol: The problem with you, Dichter, is you got no memory for things. Fast hands, slow brain. Now dip into that muddy swamp you call a brain and try to stir up a few recollections.

Sam Dichter: I gotta be dead drunk, or crazy! I saw you gunned down in Monterey, I saw it!
Joe Bristol: Maybe you were dead drunk then.
Sam Dichter: The hell I was! It was mid-morning, hot sun. And that kid, that fast gun, Auburn, Max Auburn was his name. He called you on the street, and he took you by a second and a half. You were a corpse before you hit the ground!

Abe Bennett: Damn your eyes, Dichter. Your wits slog along like a crippled mule, don't they?

Sam Dichter: I need a drink.
The Bartender: You want a drink, Mr. Dichter. You don’t need it. It’s, uh, it’s your time now.
Sam Dichter: My time. Mister? I got no appointment with anybody anywhere. But I’ll tell you what you need. You need your clock fixed. Now give me another drink or you’ll be the coldest bartender east of California.