A shot to the heart. Fatal to any normal human being. Unfortunately, that's exactly what King Schultz is.
Though maybe considerably more kind and generous than any other though still all good things must come to an end, may that be the fleeting life of a rose or the short life of a human being.
He falls to his knees and looks up, his hands dropping to his sides and beginning to feel numb and cold.
He feels the pain of lead embedded in his shoulder burning up his spine and making his breath stop before he drops another another foot or so to the floor.
He coughs, his lungs met with the dust and dirt of the floor. Dying like a dog on the floor, he pants, wetting his dry lips with an even drier tongue.
He feels a cold shiver rush through him like a ghost. Like his own soul, he thinks to his own dying amusement.
He never believed in ghosts, souls or ghouls but he prays that someone is waiting for him on the other side of life.
His eyes slowly trace the smoke, painted from the barrel of the small, silver pistol.
Another shot and lead pierces his calf, the shock and pain of the action hitting him hard and making his muscles contract, his whole body jerking in pain. His eyes screwing up in agonising pain.
The floor is stained with blood as he coughs a little onto the dusty expanse of land. It casts an almost oil-stained puddle on the floor, through his sepia-clouded eyes.
Fingers trembling, ankles shaking and breath jerky, he tries to stand, his arms weak from the pang of agony in his chest and leg.
A shot and he's back, face ground into the dirt and the snap of bone. It takes a minute to register that the scream of anguish is his own.
When he summons the strength to look to his arm, blood is almost pouring from the gun shot wound, bone and blood alike scattered about the ground.
Soon, in around twenty minutes, he will bleed out, leaving his mark on the dust-covered wasteland.
His ears ring, his eyes are dry from not blinking, he smells blood, he tastes iron and he feels the Sun's heat beating down on him. His mind wanders to regrets. Brother, dead.
All chances of family and wife, dead. Soon, Django bursts out of their shared cart, Fritz, still a little jippy from the gunshots so close to his head and body.
A shot to the head kills the young delinquent and the Bounty Hunter rushes over to the older man, once sure the criminal is dead after shooting several bullets into his back.
He feels his head and torso being lifted from the floor and his head swimming with the promise of death. A kiss to his cheek. A life wasted. A life spent alone, in the cold.
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