You sit your miserable ass up in bed, hoping the pain in the chest will subside as the morphine drip the kindly nurse gave you kicks in. Your body aches mightily as you look down at the bandaged shotgun wound on the side of your ribcage.
Thank god the old fucker was so drunk he could barely lift the shotgun, let alone aim, you think to yourself.
Your memory slightly hazy, you recall quickly diving aside as ol' Jim brought his shotgun into the bar. After that, things are a blank. What exactly went down?
As you wince in pain, shifting your considerable bulk in the ill-fitting hospital garb, a sheriff's deputy walks in the door to your room. He tips his hat at you, taking it off and tucking it under his arm.
"Howdy, sir. I hear you had a rough go of it last night," he says.
"Not really sure what happened there, officer. Memory's a little fuzzy this morning." comes your reply.
"It's 4 in the afternoon, sir. And Jim Moffatt managed to take out four other customers with that shotgun of his. Three of them are dead, and the other is barely hanging in there."
You think carefully about your response.