There once was a little boy, no more than 5 or 6 years of age, but who was by far the fastest gun in the imaginary West. They say the flick of his wrist was like a cobra striking as he drew his piece and gave the killing shot every time, for he was just as precise as he was quick. This is why they called him the Snapper, and also why they called him Whip. His eyes were barely ever seen, the brim of his hat shading them like a good hat should, and he wore a smirk cocked to the right side of his face that said it all. It said, “I know I'm quick, but I'm not cocky; that weakens a man, slows him down, and then I wouldn't be quick anymore.” He carried a red handkerchief in his right hand, mindlessly fiddling with it at all times. Some say it was a nervous twitch, others say he subconsciously preoccupied his self with it because his mind was bored with the world around him, and still others assumed he just had a sweaty palm and used the cloth to keep it from getting too clammy. Whatever was the case with his right hand, it was his left that caught the eye of passersby as it rested calmly beside the shiny six-shooter on his hip. The pistol seemed to be a natural part of the boy, as if it had been fashioned to fit his hand and match his smirk. He had no horse to ride here and there, and when asked about this, he would simply chuckle to himself and casually exclaim that they're just too slow and cumbersome.