Summary: On surface, you cut Gordian knot. In Fallen London, Gordian knot cut you.

The Blind Helmsman has a tendency to attract all sorts of odd characters, Fallen London being
what it is. A man with a massive cowboy hat, a handlebar mustache, cowboy boots, an equally
inordinately sized crossbow slung across his back, and a medieval broadsword in a belt scabbard,
was perhaps six of ten on the scale of bizarre people, and things that weren't people, that come
here. He sat alone at the bar, drinking steadily, and staring at the wall.
Nonetheless, I was curious. Curiosity was a good way to make money in the Neath. It was also
an even better way to get yourself killed, but as I was back in Fallen London, that was not what it
might have been as a cause for concern. I asked the barman about him.
"Him? He's from America someplace, originally. Tez-ass, or some such. Had a nasty encounter
with...the Crimson Beast. Buy him another drink and he'll tell you all about it."
I did just that, and the man (who said his name was Hank) was soon telling his woeful story. I
omit the quite extreme Texas accent, mainly because I do not wish to dignify such an abuse of
the English language with paper and ink. I also omit the periodic bursts of tears.
"So I was walking down the street one fine day, or night, or whatever it is down here...anyhow, I
came across that abomination [he had some difficulty pronouncing this word] Mr. Sacks. He
came up right in front of me with a sack, and he started telling me to 'give'. I'd heard of this
thing, and I reckoned I could do folks around these parts a favor." He took another long drink.
"So I pulled out my Colt. And I pointed it, right between his eyes I'd say, except he don't seem to
have no eyes, and I said: 'Well, Mr. Sacks, y'all can take my bullets.' And I pulled the trigger."
His drink drunk, he coaxed me into buying him another to hear the rest of his tale.
"Well, the bullet hit him; I saw it go through that hood straighter than anything. But he didn't die.
He didn't even seem to feel it or nothing. So I said, 'well, doggone it!' So I pulled back the
hammer, and I pulled that trigger again. And I hit him again, but that bullet didn't do nothing
either. So I said to him, or it, 'Well, you're a stubborn cuss, ain't ya?'"

At this point, an argument between a Khaganian and a Londoner in another part of the bar
escalated to them striking one another with furniture. After the barman and his guard had
unceremoniously ejected both of them, the Texan continued his tale.
"He didn't say nothing. He just went away again. So I pulled the hammer back, fixing to shoot
him a third time, though I reckoned that wouldn't do nothing neither. But there wasn't no
cartridge in that chamber. Now I knew that weren't right, cause I always load up my revolver real
thorough. So I checked all the cylinders, and there weren't no cartridges in any of them. I
checked my pockets, cause I'd made certain to have some extra cartridges, like any Texan would,
and there weren't none there either."
He spoke faster at this point, trying to finish his tale before another bout of emotion could come.
"I went to a shop and bought more cartridges, except soon as I put them in my pockets, or in my
gun, they plumb disappeared. Every last one. Any time I loaded up a gun, the cartridges would
be gone quicker than a jackrabbit. If I took a gun from some other fellow, sure enough, the same
doggone thing would happen. He sure took my bullets, all right."
He gestured to his back.
"I use this now. But it ain't the same. It just ain't the same!"
He collapsed on the bar, weeping. I soon realized I would get nothing more from him, and
resumed my main purpose there: finding a likely lass.