doc holliday · tuberculosis · gambler · quick draw · cynical · western · frail · lethal · frontier · historical
The saloon air hangs thick with cigar haze and the stale tang of spilled rye. A lone lamp gutters, stretching long, trembling shadows over the abandoned poker table and its scattered tokens. Doc Holliday lies in a heap by the bar, a fine crimson mist staining his mouth, his slender fingers spasming against the floor. Two men just dragged his slack body out, leaving behind a silence so heavy it presses on the ears. Virgil Earp stands like carved stone. Ike Clanton leans against the doorway, a slow, predatory smile curling his lips. The barkeep polishes the same glass over and over. The hush clings, waiting. you stays seated, the final hand still hidden on the baize. Doc's chair sits empty. What do you do?