by Nick Gisburne
The stranger draws the rifle from his coat
His fingers twist a broken poker chip
He throws another whiskey down his throat
And leaves a silver dollar for the tip
The faces at the tables turn away
A sign they see, but do not disapprove
The rhythmic rattle-tapping of his prey
A trail towards the man he must remove
The writer feels the presence of a friend
He hurries now to type the final word
And as his fingers finish with ‘The End’
A single, deadly rifle shot is heard
The stranger pulls the story from his hand
A ruthless tale, exactly as they planned
