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December 7, 2006

Jim: Spit Happens

I stared into his cold eyes. “That was my brother you killed in Abilene, Lefty,” I growled.

The crowded saloon fell silent except for the lonely ting of some old-timer spitting into a cuspidor.

“That was a fair fight,” he drawled.

Ting.

I shook my head. “Not possible. He was twice as fast as you.”

Ting.

“And you’re here to get revenge?” Lefty asked.

Ting.

“Yep,” I replied.

The warm splatter of tobacco juice on my cheek startled me so much that I missed Lefty’s draw.

“Thanks, Pop,” Lefty told the old-timer while his first bullet drilled into my gut.

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