The Gunslinger [Juarez/Public]

This was not exactly how she thought she'd be spending the rest of her life. Well, hopefully the rest of her life. If not, there was a good chance that her other option would be going either back to the criminal world or straight to the hangman's noose. Either way, she'd be guaranteed an early death.

Being an entertainer was clearly not what she was born to do, though. It was a good thing she had the skill, because she certainly didn't have the charisma.

Unsmiling, she stood with her arms crossed next to the announcer as he loudly and annoyingly advertised what she was going to do. Yeah, yeah, yeah, shoot some targets, wow some people. She wanted to get on with it. Having so many eyes trained on her made her feel uncomfortable.

The second before he even got to finish, she drew her gun, checked the safety, cocked it, and fired one-handed at a row of glass balls thrown into the air. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. Blam. The five fragile spheres exploded in as many seconds. The crowd clapped as she scowled to herself--they weren't helping the ringing in her ears. The FN-57 was a beautiful gun, one of the best semi-automatic pistols in the world, but they wouldn't even let her put a silencer on it. The people liked hearing the big banging noises, apparently. It added to the effect.

After taking down a number of other targets, including a coin, playing cards, and several noisy bells that she aimed at while blind-folded, it was time for her final act. Shooting an apple held between someone's teeth. This was tricky not only because she obviously had to avoid shooting the person by accident, but also had to hit the piece of fruit in a way so that the force wouldn't knock their teeth out and so it wouldn't explode and lodge into their throat.

Raising the gun with both hands, she trained her sights (well, figuratively speaking, since she wasn't allowed actual sights--they called it 'cheating') on the target held in the unfortunate participant's mouth, making it clear through the look in her eyes that she would not be particularly bothered if she missed.

She squeezed the trigger.

((OH HEY LOL, WHO WANTS TO RISK THEIR LIFE? idek if this is feasible, but YOU KNOW WHAT Annie Oakley shot the ashes off of Kaiser Wilhelm II's cigarette while it was in his mouth. So I'll be damned if this is not possible. :I))

Oh, what the hell, man. He did not leave the South side for this. He left because he wanted to avoid being shot at. The things he did for some spare cash...

Face smeared with white shoe polish and ladies' lipstick(someone stole the expensive makeup that was supplied to him), Louis trembled as he sat on the barrel, legs dangling off of the edge, already limp as if prepared for death. Garbed in his usual ensemble- a ratty double-breasted coat, some holey shoes, and porkpie hat with a daisy for added appeal- Louis sat stock still, heart thudding in his chest as he waited for the Mexican lady to pull the trigger. His strains of profanities were muzzeled by the fruit he held gingerly between his teeth. I do not get paid enough for this, son, Louis grieved through intelligable words. Scrapping calloused fingers across the rough wood, the Southern boy prayed for forgiveness to the Heavenly Father above, just in case Lil' Miss Latino's itchy trigger finger just happened to miss.

"Just do it already," he squeaked behind the apple. Eyes closed, he shook violently, which seemed to ease the tension of the crowds around them. "Send in the clowns, man."

As soon as he opened his mouth, she instantly recognized the accent. A gringo. Er...kind of. Despite the face paint, he certainly wasn't white. Still. American was American, and Maria's undying disdain for the country she bordered was...well, undying.

As the crowd gasped and sat on the edge of their seats, she pulled one hand away from the gun--and covered her own eyes while still aiming. She hoped they were all pissing their pants with anticipation. There was really no kill quite like overkill.

Lips curling upward into a wicked grin, she couldn't help tossing off a somewhat stereotypical, "hasta la vista," in a voice that sounded like cyanide and whispers of the grave, before squeezing the trigger back all the way. With a loud crack that made more than one woman in the audience shriek, the bullet whistled through the air and blasted through the edge of the apple--thankfully, the edge that wasn't facing the inside of his mouth.

Lowering her still-smoking weapon, she gave a stiff bow (as per regulation; she would have otherwise opted not to observe the niceties) as applause erupted in the stands. Flicking the safety back on her weapon, she holstered it and trotted over to observe her handiwork before the next act started.

The unfriendly frown had returned to her features as she shouted over the crowd and the announcer, "Oy! Still got your teeth?"

Falling off of his seat, stunned, Louis could have sworn up and down that his heart stopped for a few seconds. Somewhat surprised that he lived, he patted his face, jawline, and counted his teeth swiftly before stumbling to his feet. As he threw his arms into the air, the vertigo reemerged and caused him to tumble onto his back, scrambling like a turtle. The audience, once terrifyied, laughed uproariously as they left for intermission. It's all fun and games until some clown nearly gets his head blown off.

Louis growled as the Mexican woman addressed him in a manner that suggested that politeness wasn't her forte. "Yeah, yeah! Peachy," he huffed as he held onto the side of the barrel. "Just wondering why I even agreed to this fiasco in the first place. Don't mind me, ma'am, just about ate a last meal of lead-flavored apple sauce and head cheese!" He could have sounded angry, well, he felt he should have, but he was a clown. In spite of everything, clowns are always supposed to laugh, even if that means taking a bullet for the sake of comedy; the crowds loved that one. "As for my teeth," Louis pulled his cheek with a finger to expose the tea-stained ivories, "I have the same amount I came here with, minus a few but that's a story for later." Dusting off his pants with fingerless gloves, the black youth stood up and straightend his jacket like he was high-class, a Rockefeller or someone like that. "Name's Sanders, missy. Louis if you like; and what might be your name, suger?"

Her features screwed up in displeasure as she concentrated on translating the English. It wasn't that she couldn't speak the language well--she was pretty damn good at it, in fact--it was the accent she was unaccustomed to. It was certainly not the same as what she normally heard in the far west of Texas.

At least he didn't seem too terribly angry, not that she would have cared if he was. She certainly was not above causing upset in people. Once upon a time, it had very literally been her vs the world. But she'd put that life behind her now, and was supposed to be getting better at not pissing people off and getting pissed off in return. There was still a long way to go.

"Tch," she made a face at his discolored teeth, "Don't need to hear your stories, just wanna see how well I shot." Politeness was not even something she considered, let alone her forte.

Scowling, she spat on the dusty dirt floor of the arena, "Maria. You call me anything else, like 'sugar' or 'missy', and I won't miss your face next time." She really oughtn't to be making arbitrary death threats anymore, but old habits died hard. It was practically how she said 'nice to meet you'.