Tire(D) Sheriff

The sheriff wasn’t just tired. He was a tire. Bolted together from old rubber and rusted parts, he had rolled through more miles than most men ever walked. Every chase, every standoff, every dusty road had left another mark pressed deep into his tread. Now he stood still for once—no spinning, no running. The wooden boards beneath him felt strange after so many roads. His arms hung low, pistols heavy, like tools he no longer wanted to carry.