Looks at the end of the alley, patient, legs spread to shoulder height, arms relaxed, loose hands, fingers drumming in the air. Wait for the moment, challenging, safe, confident, patient, stare in the shadow of his hat. All go, no one stops. One you do, stops, a thumb caressing the butt of a gun, go, fear not fast enough for him. It is a gangster, a killer, a fast-hand that has nothing to Clapton, but there is nothing to fear, his heart shines a five-pointed star, is a marshall. Today we had to shoot like Wyatt Earp at OK Corral, all the righteousness of thousands concentrated in a few grams of lead. The poster was written: "Dead or Alive" was dead.
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