High Noon at the Faucet

The dripping chrome faucet thought it could out-stare me in the dead of night, but this frontier ain't big enough for a leaky tap and a thirsty sheriff. I marched right up to the ceramic rim, squared my boots, and called for a midnight standoff. Drip. Drop. With a lightning-fast swoop of my trusty blaster, I caught a stray splash square in the reservoir, primed the pump, and gave the tap handle a firm knock to seal the peace. Outpost secured, partner!