You open your eyes and you know immediately something is wrong. You realise with that special kind of dumb surprise that only whiskey can produce that this is not your room, not your bed, and the naked woman laying next to you is definitely not yours. A hammer comes down in your head as you try to get up, you're hungover to hell. There's a small pool of vomit next the bed. You step around and try to dress as quietly as possible You sit on the side of the bed and slide your dusty boots on with all due caution, but the bed creaks and the woman wakes.

"Mmmmmm," she says stretching. "Morning, cowboy."

"Ah, good morning, miss..." you search your memory desperately for a name but nothing comes out of chaos in your head.

"Rose darling, my name's Rose."

"Miss, Rose," you start uncertainly, unsure how to broach the topic. "Do I... I mean did we... Was it... I mean, how much..."

Rose laughs at your awkwardness, your youth, at your vain attempt to protect her dignity. "Oh, hush now, cowboy. After what you did for me last night you don't owe me nothing, and if you make it through the day, there'll be plenty more free sugar coming, and not just from me; all the girls are mighty grateful for what you done. Candy was here last too-- you really don't remember a god-dang thing do you, cowboy?"

You shake your head, fragments of memory bounce around, shattered episodes that refuse to make sense.

Rose pats the bed and says, "You're gonna wanna sit down for this, cowboy."

And she tells you what happened, every glorious, drunken, heroic, and fatal minute. You feel sick. You stick your head out the window. You get sick.

"So it's noon then?" You finally ask.

"High noon, sweet heart. And I don't mean to be rushing you none, but it's 11:45. Skewball can get kinda nasty when his duels run late," There is a look of weary resignation on her face. To her you're just another dead kid.

Standing in the dirt with your iron weighing heavily on you can see the shadowy outline of the man you assume to be Skewball. The clock reads 11:58. The town is quiet, everyone's inside, watching, waiting. To them your just another dumb country boy who can't handle his whiskey, another notch on Skewballs Gun. You're cold with sweat, adrenaline screams through your body, there's a smell in the air, a smell of something dead, a smell like sickness, like hunger, a smell like death.

You loose the strap on your gun your hand hovering over the hard wood handle. You'd practised this a thousand time as a kid, you'd been waiting your whole life for this moment. It's your time now. Time to move on from this day and look back with--

The bell chimes.

Skewball is fast. Faster than anyone you've ever seen, but you're no slouch either.

Gun's are drawn. Shots are fired. One crack, then a second, then a third and a fourth.

Skewball is walking towards you. You can hear his bullets whistle past your head. You aim and fire, aim and fire, why isn't he falling? You've got three bullets left, the gun spits lead but Skewball doesn't drop. Your gun clicks empty. Skewball's clicks empty.

He stands ten feet away a smile on his face. "Guess it's a draw you," you say.

"A draw?" Skewball starts laughing, a black laugh, the laugh of a man who likes killing. "Boy's too dumb to know when he's dead!"

You feel a wetness on your shirt. Blood. You're full of holes. You fall to your knees. The world turns dim. It's hard to breath. You think of your mother weeping over your casket. Blood fills your mouth and you struggle to get a breath of air. But it doesn't hurt. Isn't death supposed to hurt?