(Cue your favorite Spaghetti Western background music)
A dusty street, somewhere in some no-name, one horse town in the Old West. It's High Noon- but the main street is deserted. Townspeople are fleetingly seen- drawing the shades or closing their shops to hide within. A gust of wind propels a tumbleweed by, as if the climate of rank antagonism has caused it too, to seek shelter. The wind eddies, carrying with it an acrid reek and a whorl of blue smoke from an alley down the street.
Clem, of the Cannabis Clan, is in town.
Meanwhile in the saloon, Sheriff Bob Boozensmokes stubs out a cigarette and downs his last shot of whiskey before it's time to take care of business. He sits alone in the smokey room, his hat on the small wooden table in front of him. It is time.
With a sigh, he stands. He reaches down under the table for the weapon he has selected for the job- the US Army M2-2 Flame Thrower. First opening the valve on the butane tank to pressurise the system, he grunts and wrestles the 70 pounds of fuel tanks and compressed gas propellant onto his back. He cinches the straps, and adjusts the load. One last check of the igniter system. He lights another smoke, plants his worn old hat on his head, and steps out into the glaring noonday sunlight. Spurs jangle. He takes the expected position at the head of the street. Long, deep scorched scars on the town's buildings bear mute testimony that this has happened here before.
He can't see Clem, but he can smell him.
Down the street, Clem steps out from the shadows. He is similarly burdened with his own flame thrower of indeterminate manufacture. A joint hangs from his sunburned lips.
Both men survey one another through squinty eyes, and slowly wobble and sway closer, narrowing the gap between them in the street. They stop at a distance from one another, a distance only obvious to a seasoned flame-warrior.
"That stuff is bad for you, and we don't like it here. It's against the law", slurs Sheriff Bob. "Dude, your booze and cigs kill more people each year than my dope ever will" giggles Clem, between barely supressed snorts of laughter. He reels, and catches his balance. He straightens his hat, which is made of hemp.
Silence. A hard look. A moment becomes an eternity.
Both substance-addled duellists mash first their ignition triggers and a blinding split second later the fuel-release trigger. Hissing jets of burning liquid death, roiling black petroleum smoke. A missed burst splashes heavily across the front of the General Store- instantly setting it ablaze. Cursing emerges from within the morass of smoke and flame.
The WoD Flame Wars have begun.
(Ever start to write a reply and just have it run away with you?) :-)