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Rillian stepped over Dung's stiffening corpse. He thumbed the barrel-catch and flipped down the barrel of his Smith and Wesson Schofield revolver in one quick motion with his left hand; six empty cartridge shells were thrown out as the lifter pressed against the extractor raising it from its seat in the cylinder. Squatting, he rested his weight on the dead man's chest to collect the empties.

Rillian's mother had always said a boy couldn't be a man until he could afford to eat eggs and steak for every meal. At seventeen Rillian had read in a local newspaper that every last chicken and cow had been wiped from the rusty, clay-heavy soil of the North American Union by disease. Boy.
On the morning of his eighteenth birthday, Rillian decided the only way to become a man now was to face death and kick it in the coin purse.

"I'll head out there at sunset. If any of you weasel-necked spud-eaters wants, you can come along." He paused a moment to stuff six new cartridges into the charge holes of the cylinder. "I'm not forcing, mind you. But if your eyes are clear, your ears clean, and your guns loaded, you're welcome." Rillian stood up then, shoving the Schofield into his belt. "Who's with me," he shouted.

The rustling of dead leaves against the rocky ground.

Middle, a dried out prune of a man, lifted his little 86 carbine rifle above his head and shouted back, "What do I get for throwing in with you on this fight?" Several other voices echoed Middle's with yelps of positive reinforcement.

"Let's see, Middle, my good uncle. What did you get on the last mission?" Rillian said. "Seems I remember you having two hands when we set out, and only one hand when we were done." Right there, Middle and his closest fellows groaned in a collective sort of way.

Rillian pressed on, "You did manage to kill twelve men, and you snagged a gold pocket watch. So I'd say you broke even."

The rest of the crew broke into a squeal of juvenile laughter that even Middle couldn't resist. The whole bunch of them rolled around in the dry dead leaves for about ten minutes until Rillian, brandishing his other firearm, a "Yellow Boy" repeating Winchester rifle, did a clumsy yet enthusiastic Irish jig on top of Dung's dead, although sturdy, chest.

Middle and his closest buddy, Feeder, got to their feet and began to sing an impromptu dittysomething like this:

We're goin' to the Motor Base
Getting it on
We're goin' to the Motor Base
To give 'em the What For?!
Over at the Motor Base
We're gonna kill some folks
After

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