Clint Eastwok was the new sheriff of Ratchet City. Rumor had it, that with his ten gallon wok/hat to protect him from the blistering sun, and steam-powered, piston legs, he had wandered half of the known world: from the teeming city of Hong Pong, all of the way to the choking smoke of New Diesel City. But his traveling days were over.
Now he was in Ratchet city. This dusty, backwater, western town was smack dab in the middle of the triangle of terror. It was wedged between the newly formed state of Cattle Prod in the north, the warlike territories of the savage Mech Hawks to the south east, and the bloodthirsty Mexi-Cans to the south west.
After the murder of his beloved wife Mabel by Black Iron Bukowski and his vicious Rabbit Eat Gang, Clint Eastwok was hungry. But not for Mushu nuts and bolts, but for oil. Oil that gushed out of smoking bullet holes and spurted onto the sandy soil. Now that he had a shiny, sprocket badge, and a trusty six shooter, he would make them pay. Oil would be spilt . . . and there would be lots of it.