"Are you dead?" I said to Fuzzy "The Stoat" Miasma.
"No," said the Stoat.
"Only I am running out of bullets," I said, reloading my .45 in preparation to put a few more slugs through his cranium.
"Sorry, Carl," he said, on account of that is my name -- Carl Marchek, current but soon to be former hit man.
I put a few more slugs through his cranium. "How about now?" I said.
He looked as thoughtful as he could, given how little of the cranium in question was left. "No," he said. "Sorry."
"Not your fault," I told him.
"It's these modern bullets," he said. "No craftsmanship."
He was being kind. I knew I was losing my touch.
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