Hurricane Jack, the fastest bestest wildest gun packing cow poking six gun shooting outlaw of the whole wide world, his spurs jingle-jangling, his dusty trail coat flowing, walked up the steps to the doors of the English Gentlemen's Country Club in the Great State of Georgia.
"Sorry sir, a two piece suit is minimum attire for the club," said the Jeeves clone at the door.
"I always wear two pieces!" Leered Jack as he drew his .50 calibre custom made revolvers and with a ghoulish har har har kicked down the clone and stomped the muddy soles of his boots over his prostrate body.
"Har har, mighty gentlemanly of you Lord Pig!" he spat between lungfuls of fiendish laughter as he kicked in door after mahogany panelled door until he finally reached the nearly deserted dining room and fired a couple of rounds at the 2.5 million dollar antique chandeliers and bellowed for a waiter.
"Boy! Boy! bring me hot grub, cold beer and neat whiskey!" The few other members in the dining room cowered in their leather armchairs and cowered behind their oak bookcases of first edition Pulitzers and cowered in, under and behind every valuable and expensive stick of furniture in the whole place.
Meanwhile, Hurricane Jack was thoroughly enjoying his meal while the Cordon Bleu Chef who'd prepared it was held tableside at gunpoint.
"Blast that Hurricane Jack!" muttered one of the other members under his breath and under his table.
"These outbursts are revolting sure," muttered his dinner companion, "but the billions he pays us in special members' priviledges for his nonsense is putting our kids through Eton in England."
The eccentric billionaire James Humphrey Raleigh "Hurricane" Cotswold III fired another round into the 17th century antique ceiling and barked for the desert tray.
Four extremely rich waiters jumped to comply.