[mmm skyscraper]

bullet got the wrong bloke, but he don't die anyway, it's nothing mortal but he don't move. still half slumped up the wall, and the crumbled blanket. my head been this way for days. wrong bloke drops the gun, old black pistol onto the bed. heavy scars all over it. thing been changing hands all its life. shooter, gets up from the other room. maybe it went off accidental. maybe from ghosts in his head. eyes just enough to let the minimum of light in. maybe just having a laugh. shooter, gets up on his bed in next room and comes through. target, it's obvious the bloke on the other bed was the intended mark. starts rolling a fat joint. unfuzzed. his composure is evil. he seen this coming from a long way off. and now he's doing what he always planned for his moments. and you know he's a professional. probably the only one there. and though he looks the same as the other three, something very different moves beneath his skin. target, is focused on the simple soothing task, more tuned response has kicked in for the final act. and centuries of practice passioned the perfect cone, rolled with measured madness. he lights it and inhales. shooter, walks in, deliberate and stiff. holds a pistol to the chest of wrong bloke and pulls the trigger. a thin jet of water hits him in the face like a circus clown. wrong bloke, looks out of big eyes now. he's straining against something he's heard just to see what is really happening. arms limp, palms up. shooter, reaches down into the blankets beside him, across a gray blood-stained vest, and comes up with the old black pistol covered in scratches. back to bare metal, like it's been kicking around the desert alone for years.