Two-Eyed Jake stared down the barrel of his rusted six-gun. One pull on the trigger and all his worries would be gone. His twin brother, the scourge of his years, would be dead. Stone dead. He took a slow breath, stepped out and drew back his finger. The gun resisted momentarily, the barrel creaked, and then, suddenly, there was window-shattering crack as the bullet entered the chamber, the hammer hit the casing and the gun exploded in Jake’s hand, leaving a bleeding stump and a shattered bone. As he lay in the dust, the midday sun cooking his blood, he cursed God, he cursed his brother and he cursed Samuel Fucking Colt. Then died, a two-eyed, one-handed failed fratricide.
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