Arthur downed his second glass like it owed him money. John followed suit, a little slower, eyes still fixed on Jake like he'd seen a ghost riding a unicorn on fire.
"So lemme get this straight," Arthur muttered, swirling the last drops of amber in his glass. "Dutch loses it. Hosea dies. You say I get sick. And Micah... that rat bastard... turns on us?"
Jake leaned back and raised both hands like a magician revealing the final card. "Ta-daaa! Welcome to the tragic western opera that is your life. Coming soon to a death near you."
John shook his head slowly, processing it all. "You ain't even supposed to exist... and yet you know more than we do."
"I mean, I did binge your life like a Netflix show," Jake replied, taking a slow sip. "And you guys are top-tier drama, let me tell you. So many twists, so many gunfights, so little therapy."
Arthur finally stood up, slamming his glass down. "I need air. And a plan."
John followed, glancing once more at Jake with narrowed eyes. "You could still be lyin'."
Jake stood up, hands raised in surrender. "Sure. I could also be an alien or a hallucination caused by bad whiskey. But we all know I'm way too pretty to be fake."
They walked out of the saloon, boots clunking on the wooden porch. The late afternoon sun hit them with a warm glow—and Jake with a blinding slap to the face.
"Holy shit! That's real sunlight," Jake muttered, shielding his eyes. "Not the artificial kind that comes from my filthy-ass window back home."
Arthur sighed, already regretting every decision that led to this moment.
Then Jake's eyes caught something—like a child spotting candy behind glass.
A gunsmith.
"Oh-ho-HO! Can I get a gun?" Jake asked, pointing with enthusiasm only seen in children and maniacs. "Like a big, badass revolver? Or maybe dual pistols? I wanna feel like John Wick meets Arthur Morgan with a splash of Doomguy!"
Arthur didn't even look at him. "No."
Jake moved closer. "Pretty pleeease?"
"No."
"I'll stop asking if you say yes."
"No."
"I'll never shut up if you say no."
John sighed. "He's got a point."
Arthur glared. "Don't encourage him."
Jake clasped his hands together like a Disney princess. "C'mon, dad."
"I will shoot you."
"Then I'll die happy, holding a goddamn revolver."
A long pause.
Arthur groaned. "Fine. One gun. Nothing fancy. And no dual-wielding, you ain't earned that."
Jake fist-pumped the air. "Let's GO, cowboy capitalism!"
He sprinted toward the gunsmith with the energy of a caffeinated gremlin, leaving John and Arthur behind.
John stared after him. "He's like if a goat learned to talk and snort sarcasm."
Arthur rubbed his temples. "We're all gonna die. But at least now it'll be loud."