My rich kid was king of the neighborhood cowboys. He had the stagecoach bed, had a real Stetson, had a real leather vest, even had some VERY fancy "functional non-firing" Italian-made replica 6-shooters (not the toy store variety the other neighborhood cowboys used).

There was one thing that the king of the neighborhood cowboys didn't have and, thanks to my uncle Jeff, I did: a genuine freshly-fired .45 Long Colt cartridge. My uncle Jeff talked to a "cowboy" enthusiast he knew and that worthy gentleman jumped at the chance to make his friend's nephew ridiculously happy. The whole situation gave the man a perfect excuse to give his REAL 6-shooters a trip to the range.

Anyway, next weekend when the local neighborhood posse gathered, I had something none of the trail riders had… a spent shell, from a REAL cowboy-gun, that still smelled of gunsmoke and burnt powder. Stuff like that is magic to little cowboys. It's a genuine artifact from the Old West.

The king of the neighborhood cowboys was very much distressed to discover I didn't want to "trade" for it, even if it meant getting to borrow one of his fancy Italian-made replicas for (gosh!) [i]the whole afternoon!!![/i]

A day or so later, the kid's dad swung by our home and offered my dad a large sum either for the shell I had or another one like it. My dad politely told him it wasn't for sale and he wasn't interested in getting another one just like it. Since this was the early 80s, the kid's dad simply upped the price. My dad wasn't quite so gracious when he told the man this was a good time for father and son to BOTH learn an important lesson about the world: some things just aren't for sale, even when you're rich.

I had something that made me a "real cowboy". If the king of the neighborhood cowboys didn't, that was just too darn bad because that's the way things were going to stay.

"I sleep in a stagecoach. Do you?"

"No, I sleep in a bed bed with my wife"