THE GUNMAN

The saloon door *didn’t creak open* —it *slammed* , shaking the damn floorboards. 

Every head turned. 

Dust curled up from the impact, twisting through the smoke-filled air, catching in the amber glow of the hanging lanterns. The scent of *whiskey, sweat, and regret* mingled together, thick enough to choke a man. 

And then— *Jingle Bell stepped in.* 

Boots scuffed against the wooden floor, *slow, deliberate* . 

Spurs *jingled* , not loud, not rushed—just enough to remind everyone in that room who had arrived. 

He wasn’t a man who *filled silence* —he *owned it* . 

The bartender froze, rag dangling from his fingers, caught between wiping a glass and making himself scarce. The *stable boy* , slouched at the bar, stiffened slightly—but didn’t turn. 

Smart kid. He knew better than to look too long. 

Five ragged men followed Jingle Bell inside— *his crew* , all crooked, twitchy, carrying the kind of nervous energy of men who worked for someone *a little too dangerous* . 

But Jingle Bell? 

He wasn’t nervous. 

His mismatched eyes— *one blue, one green* —swept over the room, lazily but *sharp* , like a wolf sniffing out its next meal. His scarred lip curled into a grin, the kind that *wasn’t friendly, but made people smile anyway—just out of fear* . 

He kicked a chair out of his way, didn’t bother looking where it landed. 

Then—he chuckled. 

Slow. *Mocking. Like he had all the time in the world.* 

_"Well, well, well… ain't this a cozy little hole in the ground?"_ 

No one answered. 

Not yet. 

Jingle Bell clicked his tongue. 

_"I don’t suppose any of you fine gentlemen happen to have seen a man sittin’ around lookin’ like a kicked dog? Big fella, stupid-lookin’, probably tryin’ real hard not to be noticed?"_ 

Silence. 

Then—his eyes landed on *Eli* . 

The man in the corner. Hat pulled low. Whiskey untouched. *Not hiding. Just waiting.* 

Jingle Bell’s grin stretched wider. 

_"Now, ain’t that something? I tell a story about a stupid-lookin’ fella, and wouldn’t you know it—here he is."_ 

Still, *Eli didn’t move* . 

Jingle Bell *liked that* . 

Liked men who *thought* they had a chance. 

He pulled up a chair, dragged it out *slow* , letting the wooden legs scream against the floor, taking his time to sit. 

_"I heard a funny thing today, Eli,"_ he said, voice easy, teasing. 

No response. 

Jingle Bell smirked. 

_"They say you’re dangerous. You believe that?"_ 

Eli reached for his glass— *slow, calculated* . 

Jingle Bell’s fingers *tapped against the table* , rhythmic, *like a ticking clock* . 

_"Go on. Drink it."_ 

Eli paused. 

The *stable boy shifted* , watching from the bar, but smart enough not to interrupt. 

Jingle Bell leaned forward, lazy but *deadly serious* . 

_"See, I got a theory, Eli."_ 

He turned the glass in front of him, studying the liquid like it *held secrets* . 

_"A man’s reputation don’t mean a damn thing if he don’t back it up."_ 

Silence. 

The bartender held his breath. The stable boy didn’t blink. 

Jingle Bell *smiled like he knew something nobody else did* . 

_"So I figured—if you were really dangerous… you’d have killed me by now."_ 

Then— *he picked up Eli’s whiskey.* 

Lifted it. 

Unbuckled his belt. 

And— *pissed in it.* 

*Right there.* 

*Right in front of everyone.* 

The *sound* was *obscene* , the act *disrespectful beyond words* . 

The bartender flinched. 

The stable boy *gasped* . 

Jingle Bell— *he just laughed.* 

_"Now, Eli,"_ he said, setting the glass back down— *still warm, still full, still reeking of insult* . 

_"You gonna drink that?"_

*Eli raised his head.* 

Not hurried. Not hesitant. Just _slow._ 

And that was when the mistake became clear. 

The wrong man had been underestimated. 

His face came into view, bruised and cut, but *calm* —the kind of calm that comes when a man knows exactly how this will end. 

And then, he looked at Jingle Bell. 

Not with anger. Not with fear. 

Just *amusement* . 

His lip curled, barely, like he’d just heard the dumbest joke of his life. 

Then, *he leaned closer* . 

Close enough for Jingle Bell to feel the warmth of his breath—close enough for the entire saloon to freeze in place. 

_"You're looking at me like I’m your sweet old grandma,"_ Eli murmured, voice low, like a growl buried beneath words. 

_"But guess what?"_ 

A pause— *too long.* 

_"I ain't."_ 

And _then_ —violence. 

Jingle Bell barely had time to blink before Eli’s hand _snapped_ around his wrist, *twisting* in a brutal, merciless wrench. 

The crack was _sharp_ —bone torn from proper alignment, *rendered useless in an instant* . 

Jingle Bell *grunted* , pain flashing in his mismatched eyes, but Eli was already moving. 

His free hand dipped— *not* for the revolver. 

*For something worse.* 

From the holster at his boot, he *ripped free* a weapon built for brutality. 

Not a duelist’s gun. Not something elegant. 

A *stick-boom* . 

Short-barreled. Loud. _Disgustingly_ powerful. 

*And it went off before anyone could react.* 

The man nearest to Eli *screamed* , but the sound barely lasted— *half his body was gone* before he could even hit the ground. 

Blood sprayed in heavy, wet arcs, catching the lantern light, painting the saloon in carnage. 

Another tried to reach for his pistol. 

*Eli didn’t let him.* 

The next blast *tore through his stomach* , spilling the remains onto the whiskey-stained floor. 

A third man tried to *run* . 

Eli put *two bullets* in his spine before he made it two steps. 

And the fourth— 

The fourth was the fool.

The fourth *charged  with a knife* . 

Eli had his gun raised, already *waiting* —but before he could pull the trigger, the *stable boy struck first  frowning like  he had just saved Eli* . 

The whiskey bottle *crashed* against the attacker's skull, shattering into shards, sending the man *crumbling* before he could even process his own mistake. 

Silence *followed* . 

Heavy. *Suffocating.* 

Because only *one* was left alive. 

*Jingle Bell.* 

On the floor. Crawling backward through the gore, through the *unrecognizable remains* of what used to be his crew. 

His breath was *uneven* . 

His wounded hand *trembled* . 

And Eli— 

Eli was *coming for him.* 

Slow. *Deliberate.* 

No rush. No mercy. 

Every other soul had *fled the saloon* —the bartender, the spectators,only God knew why the stable boy was still standing there. 

Only Eli and Jingle Bell remained. 

Only *the insult* remained. 

*The glass.* 

Eli bent, grasped the whiskey glass—still *tainted* , still *reeking of disgrace* . 

He turned it in his hand, studying its contents like he was deciding whether he _should_ be disgusted. 

Then, *he crouched* . 

Knee to wood. 

Voice *dangerous, calm, absolute* . 

_"Let’s find out who the real coward is now, shall we?"_ 

Jingle Bell *swallowed hard.* 

Eli shoved the glass closer. 

_"Drink it._ 

_"Or I put a bullet through your  damn skull right now."_ 

For the first time since stepping into the saloon, Jingle Bell *hesitated* . 

His fingers trembled. His mismatched eyes flicked between Eli’s gun and the swirling, piss-tainted whiskey. 

And then—he *grabbed it* . 

The glass *clinked* against his teeth as he downed the *whole* thing in one desperate gulp.