Dominic ground the muzzle against the proprietor’s temple. His hand, his nerves were frighteningly stable.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he whispered. “Isn’t there something you want to say?” His biceps flexed, driving the muzzle further into the flesh with every other word. The proprietor, mouth agape and stuffed with a tied piece of bed cloth, lifted his eyes and uttered only noises.

“I’m sorry, what?” Dominic answered, voice dredged in malice. “You’re sorry for your lack of humanity? You’re sorry for my disfigured leg? Is that what you said?”

Dominic leaned in mockingly as he spoke, as if straining to hear. He recklessly reached into the proprietor’s mouth with two fingers and removed the cloth. The man gagged before finally catching his breath.

“I…” he rasped, “I hope you -”

“DON’T CARE!” Dominic blurted, pulling the trigger and showering the wall with the man’s blood and gray matter.

As the muzzle flash died and burned his senses, a woman appeared in the doorway.

“Congratulations, Dominic,” she said.