[ The only smooth move Len is executing is the way that he draws his revolver and lets it hang at his side for a long moment, the end of the barrel tapping against the side of his thigh. He's been a patient man for a long time now, the impulsivity of his youth an only slightly distant memory. It doesn't often resurface save for in rare occasions such as this: the urge walk this man a half mile out into the empty land around them and force him to dig his own grave is itching at the back of Len's head.
His concentration narrows to a sharp point and he takes a few steps closer, the space between them winnowing down to nothing. Len privately relishes the minor height advantage, the satisfaction of looking down on someone who once held him at gunpoint, on his knees. ]
What's that old saying?
[ The muzzle of Len's gun skims the damp placket of Benny's shirt, button by button, sliding thinly against his stomach until it taps the grip of the pistol hastily shoved into the waistband of his slacks. Len tips his head in predatory recognition; pearl handles and elegant script, exactly the sort of highbrow purchase one makes when one wants to fit in with a crowd where he doesn't belong. ]
no subject
His concentration narrows to a sharp point and he takes a few steps closer, the space between them winnowing down to nothing. Len privately relishes the minor height advantage, the satisfaction of looking down on someone who once held him at gunpoint, on his knees. ]
What's that old saying?
[ The muzzle of Len's gun skims the damp placket of Benny's shirt, button by button, sliding thinly against his stomach until it taps the grip of the pistol hastily shoved into the waistband of his slacks. Len tips his head in predatory recognition; pearl handles and elegant script, exactly the sort of highbrow purchase one makes when one wants to fit in with a crowd where he doesn't belong. ]
Don't shoot the messenger?