It happened in a small, dimly lit bar on a Thursday night — one of those places where the jukebox still plays old country songs and the regulars all know each other’s troubles. The air was thick with smoke and cheap whiskey when a man stepped through the door, his face pale, his hands trembling slightly as he held a polished Colt 1911 in front of him.
“I’ve got a .45 caliber Colt with seven in the mag and one in the chamber,” he said, his voice low but steady. “And I want to know who’s been sleeping with my wife.”
The room went silent. The bartender froze with a rag in mid-wipe, and every conversation died at once. Only the hum of the neon beer sign filled the silence. It was one of those moments when time stretches thin — where every heartbeat feels like a gunshot waiting to happen.
From the back of the room, someone finally spoke. “You’re gonna need more ammo.” The voice was calm, amused even, as if the speaker hadn’t just stared down the barrel of a loaded gun. Nervous laughter rippled through a few of the braver drunks, but no one really found it funny.
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