Joe

The bar smelled of old wood, sour bar rags, body odor, and, depending on how close to the restrooms, old piss. The fluorescent lights mixed with neon booze signs created colors difficult for the brain to process. Sitting at a half booth table was a heavy-set man with thick salt and pepper grey hair. He could be in his sixties, or he could be a rode-hard forty. In the odd lighting, it was hard to tell. Across the table sat Bill. A 15-year veteran on the force, well groomed and fit.

The smoke dispersed from the barrel of the pistol. Some 20 feet or so away, a younger man dropped his arm. His gun on its way to the floor. In a split second, Joe could identify several emotions in the young man's eyes. Surprise, shock, pain, sadness, why, a grimness that accompanied the reality that he was dead. All that was left to do was fall.

"Damit, Joe" shouted Bill. "Damit, damit, damit"

Joe's lip twitched. He could feel a pressure in his chest. Killing another man never felt good. There is always a nagging, sick feeling. The young man had collapsed to his knees, leaning backward and a little to his left. When the corpse finally came to rest. His legs were in an unnatural state. The dead man looked exceedingly uncomfortable instead of at peace.

Joe told himself that the pressure in his chest meant he was still human and that maybe he hadn't lost all his soul.

"Joe, you can't shoot first. Damit, he was just a kid."

"He drew first," the raspy voice replied. Joe never talked much. Stating facts was about all he would say.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean he was going to shoot."

"I don't read minds, Bill." Spoken coldly by a man who is no stranger to introducing someone to death.