The whole bar fell suddenly silent as he pushed through the double saloon doors, except for the wizened old piano player who continued his playing.
“Why, you low-down, yellow-belly varmints,” growled Mitch ‘Dead-eye’ Glazier, executive vice president for public policy and industry relations for the Recording Industry Association of America, and fastest gun in Tennessee state.
“Were you not aware that you need a license before a-tinkling on the piano the fine hits of English operatic rock band Queen in this here bar?” he demanded, offloading a shot from his six-shooter straight into the musicians head.
The bar full of the meanest grizzled old outlaws in the Southern states looked around, stunned.
If there was one thing ‘Dead-eye’ Glazier loved it was the correct implementation of copyright law.
“Y’all hear this now,” ‘Dead-eye’ roared. “I’m here on the orders of Governor ‘Big Bill’ Haslam, and y’all better listen up real good.”
“I do hereby notify y’all bunch of tobaccy chewin’ miscreants that there is a new law in town.”
“From yesterday, being Memorial Day, you shall henceforth be subject to the laws of this fine state, and no longer shall y’all lowly outlaws be a-using the same password as your kin to access accounts of Netflix style websites.”
A couple of the patrons attempted to scurry out the back door but were fixed under the steely gaze of Stephanie “Whip-lash” Jarnagin, research analyst for Senate sponsor Jim Tracy, a Republican whose reputation was feared across the land, as much for her devout civil authoritarianism as her deadly whip skills.
She needed not say a word. Tales of her Republican fervor were told across campfires across the land, and the patrons new the party was well over now.
“But my little’uns, why they’re sick boss,” said one brave old lady, her hands shaking as she grasped her bottle of sarsaparilla. “They’re sick and tired of having to pay to sign up to Spotify to listen to their Justin Bieber records, boss”.
“But we ain’t hurtin’ no one none. We are good people, just short on a few bucks is all, and the adverts on the free version are just so darn annoying.”
But “Dead-eye” Glazier knew better than to fall for the whimpering of the masses, and unloaded a few more shots in to the bar, their numbers diminishing rapidly.
“I know that the main problem do be the criminals who be a-selling passwords, and therefore illegitimate and unlawful access to paying sites, but this don’t bother me none.”
“As the first place to do so I do decry that the giving and or taking of access to sites is unlawful, and myself and the Governor see all you low-down whisky swillin’ criminals to be one and the same, even you soap-dodging students accessing Rhapsody improperly.”
The few remaining patrons winced as the loud crack of Glazier’s six shooter was heard once again.
The old lady cowered as she realized that she was one of the only people left in the bar.
‘Dead-eye’ Glazier circulated the room and reached into his bag. He withdrew a poster and fixed it to the wall with his David Bowie knife.
“I will spare all that remains of y’all here at this here bar today if y’all pass on the message of this here poster.”
“There do now be a bounty on the heads of any that be accessing accounts through those most nefarious of means.”
“And the penalty for the contravening of said laws is as such; $500 or less if it is a misdemeanor, and $500 or over it is a felony, or twenty four lashes of my here partner’s whip. Whichever the Governor does decide on.”
As the sound of the fearsome twosome’s boots left the saloon and the hot Nashville sun poured into the room again patrons began to emerge from beneath tables and from behind the bar.
Solemn nods amongst the survivors silently showed that the Governor’s law was now in place, and no longer would they dare to contravene such a statute.