The Governing Body is like the fella in that small town out west whom everybody agreed was "The best shot in town."
A new guy rides into town one day. A gunslinger with a gun strapped on to his hip. He ties off his horse and walks up to the townfolk one by one.
He asks them each and every one if this is the town with the "best shot"?
They all nod and eye him carefully with a warning, "He's deadly accurate, fer sure."
"Prove it!" the gunslinger demands. He's pointed toward the blacksmith shop. "Ask Daryl the blacksmith about it."
The blacksmith says, "Come around back here and let me show you somethin'."
The gunslinger and the blacksmith walk around behind the shop and the blacksmith points to a barn.
"You see those white chalk circles about the size of your eyeball?"
The gunslinger squints and walks up closer to the barn..."All these?"
He sees hundreds of tiny chalk circles like a bullseye on a target. Dead center of each one is a bullet hole!
His eyes keenly search for an errant shot and none can be found...
"Hey, who did this?" he asks.
The blacksmith shrugs, "The best shot in town, Rupert."
Eventually, the gunslinger finds a rather small bald-headed guy sipping a beer mug full of milk staring like an owl out from behind thick glasses in the Saloon.
"Your name Rupert?" the gunslinger asks.
"Un-huh" says the bald man in glasses as he wipes the milk moustache off his lip with a dainty silk hanky.
"I wanna see your shootin' skills for myself!"
The little guy stands up and pulls back his topcoat revealing a handsome pair of pearl-handled six shooters.
The little guy stares up at the gunslinger and snarls, "You want me to plug ya, mister?"
The gunslinger starts sweating and forces a sheepish grin. He apologizes for interrupting and excuses himself and practically runs out of the saloon.
Later that night the sound of Rupert's pistols going off can be heard all over town. Just like every other night.
"He's practising again" folks whisper to each other from the safety of their beds, "as if he needed to!"
Rupert aims carefully and cocks the hammer and squeezes the trigger. A tremendous thunder blasts forth from the muzzle of his .44. He empties
the six booming slugs from his pistol and steps forward through the white cloud of gunsmoke.
Walking over to the side of the blacksmith's barn he reaches into his vest and pulls out a white stick of classroom chalk.
Carefully and slowly he draws a tiny circle around each bullet hole.....
And that, my friends, is how the Governing Body creates their own reputation!