A lone Avocado desperado, "El Aguacate Negra," rides into town on a dusty, weathered trail, a cigar clenched between its pit, surveying the high noon landscape of the Wild West's sun-scorched desert townscape of cacti, tumbleweeds, and worn leather buildings, its skin a deep emerald green, worn and battle-hardened from years of facing down scorching temperatures and ruthless outlaws, its stem sporting a battered old Stetson hat, and its "holster" a chunk of worn brown leather wrapped around a makeshift wooden handle adorned with a gleaming silver spur-shaped rivet, the surrounding terrain a labyrinth of vast expanses of sand and rock formations that stretch to the horizon, where the blue sky clashes with the distant outline of a snow-capped mountain range.