[ WP ] Death sits down with a murderer in his final hours , to determine if he will be sent to heaven or hell .

Blood began to force its way from the puncture wound above his right breast as he fumbled for his weapon. But the gunman was gone, washed his hands of it and walked away. His quaking hands found their goal, a 22, silent and precise. A pale fire flickered behind his beady, shallow eyes and the cold steel slipped from his hands. His right lung quavered and failed as it drowned in its own blood. Upon his knees he fell upon his face, coughed and sputtered as one dragged from the sea. 
 
 He was always a weak man, but never meek. Never humbled himself to the slings and arrows of life, never fought nor ran, but made himself the victim and put his neighbors to blame. Wrought with envy at the fortunes of others, and angry at his inability to make his own. He forsook the fires and drives of his heart, and allowed himself instead to be lead by the fire of his bullets. 
 
 His face became pallid, and sallow. He felt the course of the blood would not cease at the lung. He turned upon his side, and stared directly into the barrel of his 22. He continued unblinking for a moment as wild thoughts raced through his head. He winced and started for his other side but could not turn himself away. He stared frozen at the cruel weapon. He howled a weak cry for help as blood ran down his lips. 
 
 `` Going somewhere?'' Spoke a voice with bitter irony. The victim's dim eyes shot up with a jolt. The voice had seemed to come from far away, but a body was put to it only feet from the gun. The stranger's presence seemed to silence him before he could put word to speech. 
 
 The light of day was broken upon the back of the stranger as he leaned over the victim, making his figure black as a shadow. `` Looks like you dropped something'' it taunted without motioning towards the piece. The stranger spoke with ghastly rumblings in a sort of whisper. 
 
 The victim's tongue felt suddenly free and compelled to speak, but hesitated a moment trying to resolve the identity of this stranger and how he should approach the tale of his misfortune. He noticed then another voice over his thought, and recognized it to be his own, forcing the truth from his lips. 
 
 > Thought I'd rob a portly in a suit, but he turned on me with a 38 and left me to the elements. 
 
 > To the crows more like 
 
 The victims eyes reeled and fought with the sight in front of them, why'd he drop the ball like that? And to this stranger no less who seems to appear behind guns without a footstep. 
 
 But seeing his anguish the stranger laughed a terrible laugh and spoke. 
 
 > Do n't trouble yourself fighting the truth child, I knew it before I asked. 
 
 The victim regained control of his tongue but uttered not a word while his trembling eyes sought for a face in the blackness. The figure leaned in and cold began to seize him. 
 
 > I knew you long before coming here, as often our shadows have met Derrick Smith, `` Dexter DeMort''. 
 
 Derrick's eyes stopped searching but opened wide as they found their goal. It felt to him as if a game had come suddenly to its end. 
 
 > I knew what you were too. The portly was n't your first target, but he will prove your last. Of the previous many would have envied your sad ending. It seems to me that we should be better acquainted by now `` Dexter DeMort.'' You fancy yourself my right hand sending me off in the shadow of your wake. You fail to realize that my shadow ca n't be shaken, and clung only the tighter as you struggled to fight it. The fire of your gun will not lead you any further in the darkness. may the murderous be punished. 
 
 > I'm a killer not a murderer! 
 
 The figure made no sign, but loomed over him cold and silent. 
 
 > I was attacked first. I was always attacked first. 
 
 His eyes fell back to the barrel of the gun, the sun reflected coldly off its dull chrome side. 
 
 > How did you reckon judgement would come to you? He who judged the lives of so many others. Had you reckoned yourself above judgement? You, an idea pure enough? Envy guided your heart and anger drove your hand, the gun was more a piece of you than the part dying before me. Lo, judgement day is nigh, the bell tolls for thee. 
 
 > You're death! No! Do n't send me into the darkness! 
 
 The figured bellowed with its horrible, guttural laugh, and Derrick could see its face. 
 
 > I'll do no such thing! On the contrary where I send you after this will have plenty of light, AND HEAT. 
 
 Derrick's mortised hand fell limply upon the hilt of his 22. His cold fingers felt and groped for the strength to grip his piece but could not find it. 
 
 The figure gave a third and final laugh. 
 
 > The time to hide is passed, you must face my final doom. It will not be the fate of `` Dexter DeMort'', master of his own, to die at the hands of a portly in a suit. For the murderer will not share the fate of the victim, he shall die by his own hands, unwillingly. 
 
 Dexter took the gun into his hand with an unnatural strength and raised it against all his efforts to keep it down. The barrel slowly turned against him. 
 
 > NOOOO!!! 
 
 *bang*
