Few Choices in Dark Hell

A foul smelling dust choked his gasps. A wash of heat replaced the sudden chill. A dull ache remained, just by his heart, a heart he could swear wasn't beating any more. His lids betrayed a red glow no matter how hard he squeezed them shut.

A lifetime of double-dealing, drinking, gambling, and whoring had left him with no doubt as to his eternal fate. Sure or not of his soul's disposition, he had no great desire to see it and be that much more certain. The thought of how long he could conceivably sit with eyes closed taunted his mind, eternity being a mighty long spell.

"Jebediah," came a low, hiss of a whisper.

A sickly wind howled in a cavernous distance, almost drowning out his obstinate, "What?"

A cackle. A raucous laugh. A chorus of howls a million miles off from heavenly.

"Take up your gun, boy," the whisper entreated, "We've got a work to be done, a new star for you to wear, a new trail to ride."

Still not wanting to look, he felt for the familiar steel, "Don't reckon I have much choice."