Smoke fluttered from the unashed cigarette that clung to Dmitri’s lips. “Your move, I believe,” he said out of the corner of his mouth, each word gutted by a heavy Russian accent, as he slid the revolver across the table. Vincent reached across the large pile of cash and picked up the heavy steel. The handle was cold and, through the dim light, he could catch the most meager of reflections from the silvered barrel.
“I want you to know,” Vincent slurred, taking a sip of scotch with his free hand, “that you are by far the most ridiculous person I have ever met.”
Dmitri’s smile parted and showed a mouth full of decayed teeth. He bowed his head, as if accepting the affront, and raised his glass. “To ridiculousness, then?”
Vincent inhaled deeply. He raised his eyes across the small, bleak room to a clock that hung crooked above the doorway. It’s seconds ticked away slowly and purposefully, and Vincent stared while he raised the gun to his temple.
With his hands sweating, his finger pulled the trigger.