01/18/22 Snippet, DESERT.

Shootin’! And I need to fix Joe’s inner voice.

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At least it wasn’t in the spine, Joe told himself later. Or the guts. The carbine bullet just ripped a bloody furrow through the muscles along his back and didn’t hit an artery along the way. It was still a bloody mess of pain, and Joe didn’t hit the ground by his own choice.

But, to quote the orcish philosopher: That which does not kill me will not get a second chance. Joe might have fallen down, but he still had the gun. And he knew which direction to shoot, too. It was like there was a white hot arrow along his back saying The sonuvabitch is over that way. Joe decided to take the hint as he emptied his revolver.

Five shots and two hits later, there was an elf slumped in his saddle. And an orc with an empty gun; on the whole, Joe decided he’d rather have taken the train.

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