When I turned around the guy was less than six feet from me, pointing a twelve-gauge shotgun directly at my midsection. He was thirty-something, neatly barbered and well-dressed but a bit disheveled and a little unsteady on his feet. Probably needed a few drinks to screw up his courage. He didn't look particularly adept with the shotgun but from that range he wouldn't need to be. "Did you enjoy it?" he asked with a twisted smile.Read more of Thomas Faughnan's story here.
Next Week: A golden era pulp fiction writer returns!