“its called a footshot,” the bartyender explained to some fuck who came to get plastered, “very popular drin.k. we named it after…..a legend”
in the corner of the bar sits a man with a hat on, the focus of this intense foreshadowuing happening nearby. and a trenchoat. he is smoking a cigar very mysteriously. the smoke drapes the counter in mystery. from under the hat, the mans reddish brown hair pokes out as if grasping for the meager fleeting bare sparse passing few remains of an incandescent sunset
“hey,” somebody next next to him, and the man looked up slightly. it was a member of a rival gang, of course….they called him…. the Shark. he was known for his spunky gray hair, and having absolutely nothing to do with sharks. “youre the guy everybodys talking about,right…..i got a tip i could find you hear, Mcshooty”
blowing out smoke, he chuckled “so…..youve finally come for me, then. you want to know my secrets”
“well yeah,” the man said, shifting in his bar stool awkwardly, “everybody wants to know. you do it like noboy else. nobody can do it better than you”
“it’s true. nobody shoots their foot….”
BANG. the sound of a sunshot echoed in the bar, and patrons fled like rats scurrying into the gutters of this unnamed noir city. the trenchaoted man winced, biting his cigar. his companion watched in awe, listening closely to at last hear his words.
“……like foot mcshooty”.