Michael shot Tim a stylish thumbs up after reading his note. Good ol' Tim, always thinking about stuff. Important stuff, like not letting some crazy son of a bitch sneak up on you and steal your hat while you sleep. If one's hat is stolen from them, their life essence will slowly fade away, leaving the poor hapless hat-less bastard a shell of a man. This theory was untested, but totally guaranteed to be true.
Wait. Shit. My logic's all wrong. Han Solo doesn't even own a hat, and he's the liveliest motherfucker around.
Could it be that one's life-hat was not tied to your physical headwear at all, and in fact was fueled solely by the belief you held in it? If you constantly acted like you were wearing a kickass hat, even while tragically hatless, could you still be a certifiable badass?
After a moment's thought, Michael decided that he was being stupid, and that he just wanted to go to sleep. It'd been a long day, full of assholes, and Michael needed time to recover and avoid dwelling too long on all the shit that had gone down. However crappy the encounter with the cowboy had been, no one had gotten shot, and that's all that mattered in the end, right?
Michael found a nice corner to curl up in, but not until after he had safely stashed his hat away. Stupid or not, a man had to take precautions against the legions of evil.
((Michael Mitchellson: Continued in Adam and Eve and Steve