He clicked the instrument with all the force he could muster and pulled the trigger once. Twice. Three times towards a general direction of the man with the handlebar moustache and the poncho covering his torso. The gun went bang once, twice and air exited it during his last trigger pull. He had closed his eyes during the duration of the shooting, the last image etched on his mind being the ponchoed man who stood thirty feet away from him. The smile on the man’s face was menacing; his upper lips covered by his handlebar moustache. That stupid moustache. How he hated it so.
He opened his eyes and looking at the gun wrapped around his hands. He cursed at the fact that it ran out of bullets, and instead threw the gun on the dirt below him. He hated the ground he stood on too. The sandy ground was making his new Levi’s jeans dirty.
He looked up from the lying gun on the floor, expecting to see a wounded man thirty feet away from him. Hoping to see the ponchoed man lying on the ground, his handlebar moustache no longer visible from where he stood. If he has the chance, he’d shave it off himself.
But nay, the man remained standing at the same position he was in merely seconds ago. He cursed again for missing his shot, and told himself how stupid it was to close his eyes as he attempted to shoot.
“Fuck!” He screamed loudly.
“Yup!” The ponchoed man replied, smirking and moving his handlebar moustache along, “I’m not shaving this, man. You lost! Three straight shots and your stupid Nerf bullet only hit me once. Deal was three shots hit me and I shave this beauty off. But nope! That ain’t happenin’”
The ponchoed man moved forward to where he stood, and moved close enough that he could reach him if he extended his hand. Instead of doing anything to him, the ponchoed man smirked again, and wiggled his handlebar moustache.
“You fucking loser,” he said.
