Clarence sang to the fuzz like some kinda goddamn stool-pigeon. When the Hell had he stopped being the guy who had my back? He had dozens of chances to knock me off, and never took one. There had to be something else.

I was plumb-tired of hoping, and full of so much Hellfire I could've torn the guy's head off at the neck with my bare hands.

He wasn't lying about loyalties; I'd follow my friends to the edge of the goddamn map if they'd let me. I'd die for 'em, but I wouldn't die by 'em, and giving Clarence the third degree wasn't getting me anywhere.

The dust cleared.

But now I had him cornered, and he knew it. Turns out the only real friend I had was my gun.

I cocked my friend.

My friend was an eloquent speaker, and he made two profound arguments: one in the door next to Clarence's head, shattering a splintered hole through the heavy wood, and the second in the bastard's shoulder. At this range, I wouldn't have been surprised if it went straight through.

Nothing like a little lead poisoning to put a damper on your day.