"...Son of a gun."

...A voice echoed from within the depths of a seemingly endless cavern of colossal proportions. It was the only noise within the cavern's mass, a complete absence of most of the usual cavern suspects such as bats, dirt, and internal wind. The only light formed something on an island in the corner of the great void.

The light didn't seem to have any source, but it did illuminate something quite remarkable. An enormous Dragon with vibrant blue scales laid, dead, atop a glowing mountain of gold and treasure, its eye bubbling with blood which flowed down its face and the treasure hoard like a volcano.

Out of the darkness, the old Zizz emerged. The lizard with the gun and the eccentric dress sense. Pattering along the rocky cavern floor, he had his rifle rested upon his shoulder and a great, toothy grin on his face. His pattering sped up considerably as he approached the sight in the middle of the isle of light, eventually dropping his rifle as he fell to his knees to start frantically rummaging through the mountain of treasure.

"Where is that frickin' thing, where is it, where is it..." He muttered to himself as he dug through the mound like a mole, jangling gold and getting Dragon's blood on his hands. Eventually, his jaw dropped as he grasped one item in particular, still buried beyond his reach. Unfortunately, in his excitement, he loosened his grasp on the item and it fell back into the depths, frustrating him to no end. His face now turning to anger, he continued to rummage, until he noticed something familiar.

An item off to the left, just as shiny and bloody as everything else. He grabbed at it without hesitation. Upon closer inspection, he realised that he was holding an alarm clock, of typical Zizz design. He was about to toss it away when...

"BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIII-"

-----------------

"-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-"

Back in the place widely known as 'Reality', the old, snoring lizard shuffled about on the bed, creaking the wooden floor beneath its weight. He had no covers to speak of, and the blinds were wide open, exposing the heat of the sun upon his aged, reptilian body.

As his eyes twitched open with irritation, he swung over onto his stomach and punched the alarm clock on the bedside table next to him (much more brown and rusty than its dreamworld counterpart), slicing it in half. Again. As the tape holding it together came apart. Again.

Swivelling his legs towards the direction of the bright light outside, he very slowly moved one of his clawed hands off to the side to tightly grip the black barrel of his beloved Rifle; Skrin-Ko, he calls it, leaning against the wall next to his bed.

"...Gah, the same damn dream again..." He mumbled to himself as he placed the Rifle onto his lap. Pulling back the Revolver action, he removed six bullets from his bandolier (having gone to sleep fully-clothed like usual) and individually placed each one inside the cylinder.

"That frickin' dream, always in this tavern..." He mumbled some more, slinging the Rifle onto his back to greet whatever action today would hand him, and heaving himself to the floor, his scaled feet protecting against splinters. "...Somethin' ain't right about this place."

The lizard slapped himself upside the head. It wasn't good to think too much about these things. He'd heard that this tavern could provide steady work, and that's exactly what he wanted. He of all people knows better than to question the nature of any arrangement... beneficial or not.