“Don’t piss your pants boy,” a gravely voice snarled from behind me.

The object on the back of my head adjusted enough to where I could tell it was the barrel of a pistol. My dumbfuck, backwoods buddies had put one to my head in high school playing grab ass on a drunken night so it wasn’t an alien sensation.

“Just like what you seen before, this is all about the luck of the trail greenhorn.”

Every fiber in my body wanted to turn around and see was making the old timey threats, but I knew better. There was enough whiskey just floating in the air to loosen up a trigger finger.

“What do you want?” The man asked in a flat tone.

“I don’t want anything. I just want to go home, safely,” I answered.

The man laughed right into my ear.

“Little boring, don’t you think?”

The gun pulled away from my skull and I sucked in a breath as if I had just come back up from the bottom of the deep end of a pool.

“I don’t care,” I reiterated.

The man grabbed my hair and pulled my face around. I looked up at a man with a face like a deflated leather balloon – dead, wrinkled and cinched – he looked pained.

“Well okay then,” the man started in again. “I got one of these dicklickers left in here.”

I watched the man spin the barrel of the gun and saw what looked to be a single bullet in the chamber circle around like a Tilt-A-Whirl with one carnival goer strapped into it.

“We’re going to play a game called lucky numbers boy,” the man said into my eyes with sour mash on his breath.

“I think it’s actually called Russian Roulette,” I shot back.

The man laughed a rotten laugh right in my face. His wind reminded me of the sickly aroma you get sometimes when you sneeze in the morning after a night of dealing with a really bad sinus infection – blood, pus and bacteria.

“Here goes,” the man announced before spinning the barrel.