This town weren’t big enough for the both of them. A showdown at high noon would decide who stayed and who left. The two gunmen stared each other down from under their long-brimmed hats. Their hands brushed against the grip of their revolvers. Their mouths dry from the air. They took deep breaths to enjoy what may have been their last. Their ears were locked on the large clocktower looming over them, with the second hands hurtling towards twelve on what was the final minute before high noon. Sweat soaked their mustaches. They dared not breathe through their noses lest the smell of death make them hesitate.

The second hand reached twelve. Click. The bell rang. The gunmen’s hands flew for their hips. Revolvers flew to eye level. Click. Their shots rang through the air. Bullets flew twenty paces. One man screamed. The other silently fell to the ground.

Click.

This town weren’t big enough for the both of them, and a showdown at high noon would decide who stayed and who left. The two gunmen stared each other down. One wore a long-brimmed hat while the other fashioned a bandana around his head. Their hands brushed against the grip of their revolvers. Their mouths dry from the air. They took deep breaths to enjoy what may have been their last. Their ears were locked on the large clocktower looming over them, with the second hand hurtling towards twelve on what was the final minute before high noon. The bare-lipped gunman licked his lips. The mustached gunman dared not breathe through his nose. Lest the smell of death make him hesitate.

The second hand reached twelve. Click. The bell rang. The gunmen’s hands flew for their hips. Revolvers flew to eye level. Click. Their shots rang through the air. Bullets flew twenty paces. One man screamed. The other silently fell to the ground.

Click.

This town weren’t big enough for the both of them, and a showdown at high noon would decide who stayed and who left. The two gunmen stared each other down from under their long-brimmed hats. Their hands brushed against the grip of their revolvers. Their mouths dry from the air. They took deep breaths to enjoy what may have been their last. Their ears were locked on the large clocktower looming over them, with the second hands hurtling towards the top on what was the final minute before high noon. The bearded gunman spat. The mustached gunman felt a tickle on his nose. He sniffed to clear it. His eyes grew wide. His breathing halted.

The second hand reached twelve. Click. The bell rang. The gunmen’s hands flew for their hips. Only one revolver flew to eye-level. Click. Only one shot rang through the air. Only one bullets sailed twenty paces. One man fell to his knees. They clicked. He weakly raised his revolver. It was too late.

This town wasn’t big enough for the both of them. Despite all his victories, only the losses counted for anything. Despite all the gunmen he’d fallen over the years, his only real opponent was one that never lost. One that never could lose.

One that stood directly behind him every time. Casting a shadow darker than any clocktower. Wielding his own revolver. Waiting for his own high-noon to pull the trigger. Only difference was he got to pick who he shot.

Getting hit meant defeat. Victory meant you kept going. Another few seconds of life. Another few breaths of air, flashes of light in the eye, clicks of a clock. Another scream to leave the lungs. Screaming was the luxury of the victor. A luxury worth killing for.

The loser had his own set of luxuries. The luxury of eternal peace and silence. And darkness and numbness. A luxury worth dying for? For the gunman kneeling in the darkness, he begged to differ. He begged for a lot of things. One more breath? The one behind him shook his head. The gunman’s sense of taste left him. One more moment of light. The one behind him shook his head. His sight left him. The Gunman begged for one more sniff of the stench of death he had avoided for so long. His smell left him.

All that remained was his touch and his hearing. He could only beg now that his sense of touch left him next. It was starting to get cold. Very cold. The revolver poking him the back of his head colder than anything he’d ever felt. When would his sense of touch leave him? The bullet wound on his shoulder was his last remaining vestige of being alive. He could feel tears rolling down his cheek. Blood dripping over his arm. They were warm but provided no solace from the overwhelming cold taking him over.

He begged for his sense of touch to leave him. For the numbness to embrace him. He had died for this luxury, hadn’t he?

Click.

He wanted to scream.