I stood in the dusty street, reckless and wild, listening to my heart pound. It had finally come to this and I was ready. Passers by saw my intent, felt the ice in my stare, and scurried out of the way.
“Johnny,” I called over the batwing doors of the Moon Saloon, “Johnny Badwad! Get your murdering pimply butt out here so I can put a couple big holes in your worthless hide!”
Silence descended. You could hear a sparrow fly. Pretty soon I saw his boots under the doors. I’d forgotten what a little squirt he was. He couldn’t see over the tops of the doors. As he stepped through, the one on the left stuck briefly and hooked his gunbelt, jarring his big pistol from its waiting place and onto the hard wooden sidewalk.
The boom of the .44 shattered the silence. Johnny Badwad clutched his chest and pitched to the boardwalk. I ran up and he looked at me with fading eyes.
“Damn hair-triggers,” he said. Then, his eyes glazed and he as gone.