You pull your Derringer and let loose with two slugs into the son of a bitch's chest. He goes down ass backward, convulsing and spitting blood.

Nines start popping as the ground around you erupts in a sea of hot lead . You grab the scatter-gun and roll behind your car, but let loose with a panic shot into the car's rim.

Your arms melt into a sea of red as the scatter-gun flies from your hands. Mortally wounded already, you are cut down in a hail of bullets.

You die September 12, 1999.

The end.