Boothill

The clock hits 9pm and there was no sign of his target. Boothill began wondering if he got into the wrong house. No way a supposed high profile criminal’s house would be a crappy, one bedroom apartment. At least it had some neat decorations, and all those fancy things popular among today’s folks. He scoffed to himself, spitting out a chewed metal as he shifted on the bed. The pillows soft against his face which still had skin on it, unlike the rest of him neck down.
“Fork me, muddlefudger. Get your life together…” he murmured, thinking on jumping out and wring that son of a nice lady’s neck who gave him the wrong address. But then his eye caught something, the reticle in his pupil locking on the door. The knob spun and it swung open to reveal a shadowy figure. From their disheveled appearance, it looked like they couldn’t give a fudge if they died.
Whistling lowly, Boothill waited for them to notice him and freak out. But to his surprise, they just sighed and fell face first into the pillows, still not seeing him or maybe, not caring enough to. Irritated, the cyborg cowboy pinned the figure down. One iron hand holding their wrists while his other pressed the barrel of his revolver against his target’s head.
“Should’ve thought twice before messin’ with the wrong folks, dollface…” the bounty hunter grinned, the dim light glinting off his sharklike teeth. “Any last words?”