Doc Brandenburg sighted down the long barrel of his 357.
“Are you feeling lucky, punk,” he asked. Things around him had rapidly devolved. He’d gotten supper from the cafeteria and he was not accustomed to hospital food.
“What’a’ya got there…” the cashier asked, sizing up his tray.
“I was hoping you’d know,” he answered.
“Well, whatever it is,” said the cashier, “it’ll cost you four bits.”
“Who you callin’ a punk,” Doc growled around the butt of his cigar. The cashier dropped to the floor as Doc drew his weapon.
It had been a long day.