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“It’s time,” the man in black said in a quiet whisper. He always whispered, but even so his voice cut through the other sounds right into your ear no matter what kind of racket was going on. “Already, eh? Don’t seem like much time. You reckon I could get an extension?” Pat asked, his expression showing he didn’t expect a positive response to his question. His hands were sweaty in his pockets and sweaty hands could be fatal in his line of business. He swallowed past a small lump in his throat as the man in black fixed him with a crow’s stare. He left his hands were they were, suddenly afraid of moving at all. He felt himself wither under that stare and quickly looked to the floor near his scarred up boots. “We could… renegotiate” the man replied in his dry whisper. “Renegotiate? How do you plan on doin that?” “Why, we simply agree ta alter the terms of your service in exchange for more time,” he said, this time with a thin snake-like smile twisting his lips. “What way do you plan on alterin my…er… service terms?” “We own your soul, Mr. James, so now, if you still wish ta arrange for more time before we forclose, you may perform certain… ‘services’ for us.” “What kinda services?” “The usual. Murder, rape, destruction, torture, politics, you get the idea.” “Poli-what?” Pat blurted with a confused look on his face. “Forget it.” “Now, hold on a sec. I’m listenin.” “Good. Here’s what you do. That frilly-looking snot-nose disciple of the lord who rode inta town a few days ago-” “I ain’t killin no preacher,” Pat spat at the man in black. His face was twisted in a sour look between disbelief and disgust. “You’re already goin ta hell, you silly bastard,” his whisper seeming as loud as a train coming down the tracks. “Killing a preacher wouldn’t make one speck a difference.” “I’m still not gonna.” “Lucky for you, I wasn’t askin ya to,” he hissed back at Pat. “What, then?” “His daughter.” “His what?!” “His female child. Kill the bitch.” “No way,” Pat said, standing up straight, his hand out of his pocket in a blur of movement and going to the six-gun as his hip. The man in black pinched the front edge of his cowboy hat, lifting it in a good-natured gesture, smiling widely, exposing several shining gold teeth. “You gonna shoot me?” he asked, his slithering voice at odds with his affable expression. “You are gonna shoot me? Boy, you couldn’t hit a buttcheek at an ass convention before I came along. I fixed you up, made you quick, gave you the dead-eye,” he said, smile suddenly gone, leaning in close to Pat, close enough so Pat could feel the heat coming off him. “I made you, Pat James, and what in your tiny little mind makes you think I’d letcha shoot me? You go ahead and try squeezing that trigger.” Pat stood frozen to the spot, his hand lingering a fraction of an inch from the pearled handle of his Colt. His fingers itched for it, but he knew the truth the man spoke. “I won’t do it,” he said stubbornly. “Pat, I never said you had to do it. Of course if you don’t, your life ends here and your soul is forfeit. It’s really your choice,” he said, shrugging his shoulders in disinterest. He began cleaning his fingernails as if Pat no longer existed. Pat walked to the door, looking back at the man in black, who still seemed absorbed in his nails, before turning and pushing open the wooden door. He stopped in the doorway for a moment, looking back to the man once more. This time he looked right into a pair of dark eyes. “You got till sun down, Pat. Think on it,” he said with a smile and a gracious tip of his black hat. Pat nodded his head once and left the shack, his face paling at the words. © 2005, h e a t h . h o u s t o n |