Alex “Bullseye” Turner
“So why do they call you Bullseye? Is it ‘cause you’re a dead man walking?” The man across him asks, tauntingly.
A smug smile graces Turner’s lips. “No.” He replies, reaching for the Colt tucked in his holster. His fingers wrap around the handle and his index finger hovers above the trigger, ready to fire at a second’s notice. “They call me Bullseye ‘cause I never miss.”
In the following second, his arm moves in a blur, like a viper striking, taking aim and pulling the trigger. A deafening explosion releases the bullet that lodges into the chest of the man who will soon be nothing more than worm’s meat.
An expression of terror twists the man’s face. The front of his formerly crisp white shirt is tinted bright crimson by the blood gushing from the bullet hole above the center of his left rib. He heaves a few labored breaths before falling forward and biting the dust.