Alexander draws a pistol from his belt and lays it beside the black revolver that rests atop the casket’s unpainted surface. The slide of metal on cloth, steel on wood reaches Prince.
The man turns toward John. Dead eyes lock upon their pray. The two men’s hands drop to their sides and close around their weapons. Fingers tighten against trigger.
Fireworks burst overhead. Shrieks of glee and excitement fill the air. Lights move and sway in tandem. The carnival roars with life. A black horse appears on the horizon, its rider cloaked in night.
"Every man deserves a box, John.” “Even the wicked?” “Especially the wicked,” the coffin maker replies, “Where they’re going, might as well go with some class.”