Chapter 22: Russian Roulette
Hol Horse stared at the revolver. After a long, tense moment, he grabbed the gun, flipped the cylinder open, and spun it hard.
Click-click-click-click-click...
He snapped it shut and slid it back to Jonas. It was a calculated move. First, it ensured Jonas couldn't have cheated. Second, he knew that while the first pull of the trigger had the lowest chance of firing, it was still a chance he'd rather Jonas take.
Jonas gave Hol Horse a deep, unreadable look. Without a shred of hesitation, he picked up the revolver, cocked the hammer, and pressed the muzzle to his own temple.
Hol Horse's eyes were glued to Jonas's finger on the trigger. A one-in-six chance. It was the safest shot of the game.
The next instant, Jonas pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
The sound of the empty chamber was deafening.
Hol Horse's entire body went rigid. A small, dark part of him had been praying the bullet would fire, that Jonas would blow his own brains out. His entire mission would have been completed right then and there.
Damn my luck... he cursed internally, his hand trembling as he accepted the pistol.
He raised it to his own temple.
He took a deep breath. He hesitated. He lowered the gun, aiming it at his heart instead.
Just as Jonas thought he was about to fire, he moved the gun again, pointing it even lower.
"Are you going to shoot your toes?" Jonas's voice cut through the silence, dripping with contempt.
Hol Horse's face flushed with embarrassment. He snapped the gun back up, aiming it at his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, frantically praying to every god he'd ever heard of, begging for the chamber to be empty.
CLICK.
Empty.
Hol Horse's eyes flew open. He gasped for air, his body trembling. He felt as if Death itself had just grazed his shoulder. The second he'd pulled the trigger, his back had become so drenched in sweat it was as if he'd been thrown in a river. For a terrifying second, he thought he'd heard his long-dead grandmother calling his name...
Jonas, his expression as cold and unchanging as stone, took the pistol back. He placed it against his temple.
Without a moment's pause, he pulled the trigger.
CLICK.
Another empty chamber.
Hol Horse's heart, which had just started to slow, instantly shot back into his throat. He was stunned by Jonas's absolute, inhuman resolve. But he had no time to dwell on it. It was his turn again.
As he reached out a shaking hand to take the gun, the unthinkable happened.
CLICK.
CLICK.
Jonas, still aiming at his own head, had pulled the trigger two more times in rapid succession. Both were empty.
"HOLY S##T!!!" Hol Horse screamed, clutching his head, his eyes bulging from their sockets. His mind was completely blown.
It was insane! Impossible! How could anyone be so reckless?! To pull the trigger twice more?! Hol Horse knew for a fact that Jonas hadn't cheated; he had been the one to spin the cylinder!
Now... now there were only two chambers left.
Hol Horse did the math, and his blood turned to ice. The next shot was a 50/50 chance of death.
Jonas let out a long, slow breath, his contracted pupils returning to normal. He wasn't worried about the bullet killing him—his Stand would see to that—but the primal, visceral fear of death was an emotion he could not completely suppress. The risk, however, had been worth it.
Hol Horse was a complete wreck. He was shaking so violently he could barely hold the gun. He stared at it, his mind paralyzed. 50/50. Those weren't odds. That was a coin flip. That was suicide. His teeth chattered, and a knot of pure terror twisted his stomach.
Jonas leaned in, his hand gently but firmly gripping the back of Hol Horse's neck. His voice was a low, hypnotic whisper.
"Go on. Pull the trigger," he goaded. "You can bet on yourself... or you can aim it at me, and bet that this is the one."
His words were a scalpel, sliding straight into Hol Horse's terrified heart. The cowboy finally understood. This was the true purpose of the game. It wasn't about luck. It was about this precise moment. To break him. To terrify him so completely that he wouldn't dare utter a single lie.
Hol Horse had to admit it. He was scared. Scared of the gun, and even more scared of the man in front of him, who seemed less like a man and more like a demon. He wasn't a zealot. He was just a mercenary in it for the cash. Why the hell should he die for it?
A cold smile spread across Jonas's face. Everything was proceeding exactly as he had planned. He had used the game to systematically destroy Hol Horse's psyche. A man like Hol Horse, a man who always believed he had an angle, was the most likely to lie. To get the truth, Jonas had to shatter that belief, to crush his very hope.
And he had.
"What is your name?" Jonas asked, his voice a soft rumble.
"H... Hol... Hol Horse," the cowboy stammered, answering on pure instinct.
"Gooooooooood!" Jonas hissed. "Now, Hol Horse... pull the trigger. Or are you going to admit, here and now, that you're nothing but a spineless coward?"
A wave of humiliation washed over Hol Horse. He wanted to disappear, to shrink away and hide in the darkest sewer.
"Go on," Jonas continued, his voice terrifyingly gentle. He took Hol Horse's cowboy hat and set it on the table, stroking the man's blond hair as if he were a submissive, frightened dog. "Shoot yourself. Or shoot me. It's just as I said... one of us is destined to die in this room."
Slowly, his body moving against his will, Hol Horse raised the gun. The barrel wavered, shaking uncontrollably. Jonas, seeing this, wrapped his own hand around the barrel...
...and pressed the muzzle firmly against his own forehead.
"DO IT!" Jonas roared, his voice exploding in the small tavern. "PULL THE TRIGGER, HOL HORSE! PRAY TO YOUR GOD THAT THIS IS THE LIVE ROUND! PRAY THAT IT KILLS ME!"
Hol Horse's breathing was ragged, turning into panicked hyperventilation. His finger was on the trigger. His mind was screaming.
If I pull it... if it's the one... he dies! I win! I live! The mission is complete! Victory will be MINE!
Driven by a frantic, primal, and half-insane desire to survive, Hol Horse squeezed the trigger.