Yes, you, the new-to-town. I have something reasonably unusual to speak about—

            Belly is a cowboy who will soon find a bullet in his belly. They call him Belly because his belly is his primary characteristic. Though tall, handsome, and proverbially well-built, he carries a sumptuous belly. Stain-ridden, prominent, and beyond a belt, Belly’s belly is a household name. By the pool table—the tall, slim fellow with a globular belly. Could you take a good, long, last look at him? He is about to perish by way of the bullet.   

            Belly doesn’t attend Mass, but he does join the priest after mass to shake hands with the exiting parishioners. Women worship him, and one particular woman, as an act of devotion, will fire a gun across this saloon into his belly. Her name is Caryn. She is 8 months pregnant. Believe this, her belly is smaller than his. The baby is Belly’s. The bullet is hers, and I smell blood before it’s spilled.

            My name is Hank. I produced this pencil mustache you perceive at the age of seven. These jeweled rings on my fingers are heirlooms given at my father’s death bed, or rather, death puddle—for he perished by way of the puddle after being flung by a domestic ass onto the ground, face down—unconsciously drowning. It is worth mentioning that the jewels aren’t genuine—they are but imitations. The Lord never gave me wealth or musical ability. In his mysterious way, He gave me the ability to know when a gun is about to be fired and a man is about to drop dead. I make wagers with saloon patrons. I point to a man and claim, “Get a good long, last look at that man, for he is about to be killed by way of the bullet.”

            How am I made aware of such goings-on? The Lord works through my sniffer. I smell gunpowder and blood. I follow the scent by strolling through the room, pretending to be looking for someone I’ve lost. I pinpoint the soon-to-be-departed. I return to my piano bench. An argument begins. A gun is brandished, and its trigger pulled. My hand reaches without resistance to collect payment. I place the bill, coin, or cigarette into my tip jar and resume to pretend to play the player piano.  

            It was during the Battle of Little Bighorn. As we waited for the Cheyenne to charge, the scent of blood was strong. The smell led me to Buster, my friend. “Sir, you reek of blood,” I told him. Then Frank and Wyatt. Before long, entire portions of the regiment smelled of the red. I kept my distance from anyone with the fragrance. They were killed. I survived. A gift was sighted.

            Before I approached, you may have noticed me wandering the room, looking like I’d lost someone. The truth is, my sniffer has now led me to you. Son, I do believe that in approximately—oh, the smell is quite pungent now, at any moment, let’s say, you will be filled with a bullet. Caryn’s aim will not be as precise as hoped. Her first attempt will be off and in this meticulous direction.  

            I have bet money on Belly being killed, that is, until you commandeered this seat. No doubt, you have taken this seat to be noticed by the red-head in the blue dress who slams her glass a little too loud after a shallow sip—the debutant who laughs too hard over trivial banters. Let this become simple: If you remain seated, you will be killed. However, if you meander to the table near the cabinetry—you live to show the red-headed woman your bedroom chamber and wade in her insufferable laughter.

            There is another woman. The blonde, missing an earring, is sitting next to Belly. She hangs on every word Belly offers. Though they’ve just met at this establishment, they know each other genetically speaking. I’m afraid, sir, that is Belly’s sister Francis. Their father was quite the deliverer of seed. By local estimates, he has fathered hundreds of children. Those are two of them. Faintly, her cheeks are washed red, like the blood I smell. Her lips have a pulse, like the gun about to be fired. Belly kissed her and felt the pulse running through her lips. See how his hand traces her inner thigh? If you can move to another chair, I will stand to make a fortune, and history may note that Belly’s last kiss will have been with his sister.

            I can sense you’d instead look away. Yes, it is repellent. However, I have it on good authority this is not the first time Belly has romanced a relative. There have been aunts, other sisters, and a wayward brother whom he doesn’t recall holding hands with along the canal after a considerable measure of whiskey.  

            How much money do I stand to make? The number is filthy. Smutty. I shudder to voice the numeral amounts. To think the dollar total gives me earthquakes. The dentist you see by the balcony guffawed in my face. He shook my hand and chuckled, “Sure, you have yourself a deal, you nut.” My hand gripped within his—a twinkle splashed my eyes. I raised our entwined hands and softly kissed his steady wrist. Yes, I managed to dodge his fist, which meant to splatter my nose. I retook my bench at the player piano and pretended to play “Bury Me Not on The Lone Prairie.” I meant to watch my fortune advance. That is until you unthinkingly took residence on this chair and attempted to bring me to ruin.       

            Caryn’s thigh, which Belly’s hands once traversed, has grown cold and unattended. There is a pistol located in the holster of the gentleman adjacent. Caryn will reach for this gun and pull the slim trigger. This is when Belly drops dead. This is when Belly’s sister fashions the narrative of ‘The one that got away.’ This is when the Dentist is forced to sell his business to meet my demand. This is when I pretend to play the player piano with a tip jar brimming with gold.

            Ah, yes, I half expected this. Put your gun down or aim it elsewhere. You’re a performance master, and I see right through your ploys. You and I know you aren’t about to fire that bullet—there is no smell of blood on me—have you forgotten? Hear this: I’m offering you 20% of the profits. Not converted? I’m making it 40%. Having only fired a gun twice, I’m afraid Caryn is a poor shot. She is near-sighted as the day is long. The day is long.

            Look at that. So, you have decided that you have it in you? To take another man’s life. Yes, I smell the blood. I smell it straightforward as passing rose-bush on an afternoon walk. You intend to kill me. We were partners. You realize I cannot pay the dentist the sum of our bet. I will be jailed for eternity and costumed in itchy garments. The filth. The awful filth in prison. I am not afraid of death. Sir, I worship death. It is better this way. The player piano will continue to play. I ask you to wait for my assistant, Darnell, to load the next cylinder.

            Darnell, oddly enough, once went to Heaven because he once died. He died by way of the apple tree, which he so impishly climbed to steal fruit and fell from the highest branch. The doctor pronounced him dead on the table, but Darnell, never able to sit still, found his way back to life. He told me Heaven wasn’t cold like he guessed because it was so high in the air. It was warm. Do you hear the music? The player-piano is playing “Old Cowboy’s Lament,” my favorite.

            I will hold the gate of heaven for you. It will be the three of us. The scent of blood still anoints you. Ha, so your pull of the trigger startles Caryn. After your disposal, she must unearth the mettle to aim accurately. She will drive her Belly to the Lord. The Lord will give Belly the most oversized wings because of his orbiculate belly. They will lift him. He will be lifted. His soaring is high.

            Take a good, long last look.

Adam Scharf is an actor, improviser, writer, and musician based in Orlando, Florida. Born and raised in Utica, New York, he moved to Orlando in 2007 to pursue his passion for the performing arts. His writing has been featured in Burrow Press, Jokes Review, and Phoenix Magazine. He has also released four music albums on all major streaming platforms.