In the dark recesses of a bar on a forgotten world, a cherry of light briefly illuminates a craggy face. The old gunslinger exhales a cloud of smoke and leans his head back. Three rough sorts saunter in. No one else is in here but the gunslinger and the robot bartender. They scan the room and settle on him. Their leader smiles. Poor sons-of-bitches don’t know they’re already dead. The gunslinger is just sorry for the mess he’ll leave behind.
Paddy Dobson
11th April 2024