Graham Rowat

Jacob regretted it almost instantly.

They had guns, this suited swarm of grinning beasts in the skin of men.

They were not ones to be trifled with, even if there was nothing between their ears but water.

In the thirty-five towns of the Copper Desert, any man, no matter how small, was a giant when armed with a gun.

He felt the sentence fizzle away in his mouth.

Why, not at all.

Slake spoke, but at the corner of his eye, Jacob saw Savage's lips move as well.

Sully reached forward, and Jacob noted with almost mesmerized disgust the smear of oiliness the sleeve of his white suit left on the bar.

It was almost as if he was sweating profusely, but his suit looked completely dry, and it didn't even look like sweat.

It was thicker and yellowish, like mucus had extended from the sleeve.

Jacob could feel sweat trickling off his neck as those four identical, clay-sculpted faces leered at him.

Savage, but Jacob could have sworn it was just Sully who had reached forward, took the bullet in his fleshy fingers like grey, lumpy sausages.

Then he spun it like a top until it went so fast that Jacob could no longer see its shape, just a spinning grey blur.

Then Slake stopped it with a finger,

And Jacob realized the bullet was gone.

In its place was a pile of small black shards.

They had made their payment after all.

Why, see?

Jacob felt a low moaning rising in his throat.

He wanted this surreal, hideous dream to end right now.