As the flames of hell lick at his boots
He finally spies his quarry
Four men or rather four demons in rotting human shells
The abominations that made this meeting inevitable
They turn and meet his gaze
With a knowing horror in their eyes
His hand falls to his hip
An image of liquid grace his gun flies from its holster
Gaping holes materialize in their maggot infested heads
And as their bodies are slowly eaten by the fire
He falls to his knees his face in his hands