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No brain. No decisions. No hesitation. No worries. No voice. No sight. No escape. Empty. Just an object. Just property.

And now it's off to Leadville where on every Saturday the local hunters lay out their kills on the boardwalk in front of the saloon. It's a great place to stand around with a drink in your hand as you inspect the bloody bodies. Most of the hunters even encourage the onlookers to roll the limp bodies over so that they can see both the entrance and exit wounds. That, of course, stimulates the conversation. Things like, "Let's see the cartridge that fucker uses and I sure like that expression frozen on the kid's face. Was he another runaway from the reformatory?"

once more in the west