Roy is sitting very still in a room of his own home. There's a gun pointed at his head. He knows that at any moment the bullet may come out of the muzzle to end his life.
Roy talks to the man who will be his killer. He tells the man a story about him. He calls the man a thief, a traitor, a liar, and a murderer. The story unfolds, partially in reminiscing and partially in the stark reality of the moment.
What brought things to this point? How did Roy end up in this room with the gun pointed at his head, the person's fingers slowly closing around the trigger? Why must he die?
Certainly I know what you propose to do. You propose to squeeze the trigger of the pistol just a tiny little hair's breadth at a time. Squeeze it softly, gently, just as you were taught to do out at Fort Riley all those years ago when you were a fat little buck private in the cavalry... squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, the way Ike Martin used to teach you... squeeze the trigger until you squeeze the bullet right out of the muzzle... right out of the muzzle, right at my head.
Roy
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