It feels cold.
I thought it would be warm, but no.
It's cold.
I don't know anything about it.
Caliber, chambers, sights, nozzle...
Chambers.
I don't know anything about it, but it fits my hand.
It is my hand.
They are not bullets that spew forth, but fingers.
My fingers.
My fingers that kill.
He was surprised.
I was too drunk to smell the smoke.
I missed.
He was drunk too.
Who shot first?
We stared at each other, mouths agape.
Then I placed my gun, my hand, in his mouth.
He must have tasted the steel, my silent kiss.
Then he was no more.
Blood sprayed on a prostitute behind him.
Her face was Horror.
Her whore face was horror.
I started to laugh.
Then I started to run.
They asked me,
they ask me
Why, why? Why are you doing it?
What makes a man a Bad Man?
The answer:
Nothing.
I don't care if I live or die.
I am Caleb Black and I will be legend.
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