Темная башня: Стрелок

           He’schewingit.He’sreallychewingit.

           Andontheheelsofthat:-He’sadeadman.Heshouldhavebeendeadayearago.

           Andontheheelsofthat:-Themaninblack.

           Theystaredateachother,thegunslingerandthemanwhohadgonearoundtherimofmadness.

           Hespoke,andthegunslinger,dumfounded,heardhimselfaddressedintheHighSpeech:

           "Thegoldforafavor,gunslinger.Justone?Forapretty."

           TheHighSpeech.Foramomenthismindrefusedtotrackit.Ithadbeenyears-God!-centuries,millenniums;therewasnomoreHighSpeech,hewasthelast,thelastgunslinger.Theotherswere-Numbed,hereachedintohisbreastpocketandproducedagoldpiece.Thesplit,scrubbedhandreachedforit,fondledit,heldituptoreflectthegreasyglareofthekerosenelamps.Itthrewoffitsproudcivilizedglow;golden,reddish,bloody.

           "Ahhhhhh..."Aninarticulatesoundofpleasure.Theoldmandidaweavingturnandbeganmovingbacktohistable,holdingthecoinateyelevel,turningit,flashingit.

           Theroomwasemptyingrapidly,thebatwingsshufflingmadlybackandforth.Thepianoplayerclosedthelidofhisinstrumentwithabangandexitedaftertheothersinlong,comic-operastrides.

           "Sheb!"Thewomanscreamedafterhim,hervoiceanoddmixtureoffearandshrewishness,"Sheb,youcomebackhere!Goddammit!"

           Theoldman,meanwhile,hadgonebacktohistable.

           Hespunthegoldpieceonthegougedwood,andthedeadaliveeyesfolloweditwithemptyfascination.Hespunitasecondtime,athird,andhiseyelidsdrooped.