Lotus crashes through the ceiling and lands between the pews. Her opponent tips his hat. “I like your style, lil’ lady. How do ya like this dramatic backdrop? I’ve been dying to shoot the hell outta it for months.”

She brushes some glass off her shoulder before locking eyes with him. “What do you want from me, Guy I’ve Never Met?! You told the Tailor you quit, so why are we doing this?”

“Just because I quit my job don’t mean I quit bein’ me,” he explains. “I never worked for the man’s money, though he paid me pretty damn well. He made me strong, no tellin’ how strong, not unless I test myself, which is where you come in.”

“If that’s all you want, how about you let the asshole go and gimme that bottle?! I’ll test you for free and nobody’s gotta die.”

“What the hell kinda test is that? Gotta make sure you’re motivated. Gotta make sure you’re committed...” He gets down behind Four Fingers and puts his bowie knife to the gangster’s throat. Lotus draws both her guns. She aims one at the knife and the other at The Shootist’s head. “You’re a complicated woman, ain’t ya? This man here wants you dead. Not quite an hour ago, he offered me money to put a bullet in ya.”

Lotus does not waver.

“Still want him alive, huh? What would you do in exchange for his life.”

Lotus does not plead.

“Well now, that just leaves the one motivation.”

He starts to slice and Lotus fires. As the bullet streaks towards the bowie knife, The Shootist tilts his blade slightly up and pushes it just a little bit forward. Lead bounces off steel and the bullet ricochets up into Four Fingers’ face. His head slumps forward over the knife.

The Shootist looks down at the dead man’s scalp and lets out a low whistle. “I thought that was gonna penetrate his skull for a second. Then I’da been in some kinda trouble, huh?” Judging by Lotus’ expression, he’s still in trouble.

The Shootist pulls his knife free, cutting Four Fingers’ throat for good measure. Lotus charges him. Both her guns bark like wild dogs. The cowboy steps back and parries each bullet with his blood-soaked main gauche. He draws his rifle and tries to bring it between them, but Lotus leaps up and kicks it to the side, then pounds him in the face with her other foot.

She flips backwards and spins as she flies over him, landing on the other side of the altar, and reaches for the spirit bottle. He keeps her at bay with a point-blank rifle blast. She blocks with her off hand, but the force of the bullet pushes her back a few feet. Her father’s soul stays where it is.

They circle away from each other in opposite directions, each flying over the pews as they empty their clips. The glass walls shatter in their wakes. Debris fills the air like glittering snow.

Lotus drops her clips and reloads. The cowboy draws his six-shooters.

They close in on each other and meet in the center aisle. They fight hand-to-hand, saving their bullets until they can line up a sure shot. She gets a gun against his temple, but he headbutts out of the way as she pulls the trigger. He gets a gun under her chin, she shoots the barrel to the side and plants a heel in his stomach. They each get the other in an arm lock, then try to twist each other in front of their own weapons.

They part like ballet dancers. The Shootist gets his gun hand up first, pointed right between Lotus’ eyes, but she crosses her guns in front of her and crimps the cowboy’s barrel like a silly straw. She smiles wide and gives him both guns. He parries two bullets with his broken pistol and kicks a third away with the spur on his boot.

He continues flying backwards as Lotus drops her clips, but prevents her from reloading by fanning his good gun. That gives him just enough time to pull two sawed-off shotguns from beneath the altar.

“Cheater!” she accuses him.

“I don’t reckon we specified terms.”

Clouds of buckshot fill her vision. Lotus swats away what she can as she dives behind a pew. Another blast tears the pew to pieces around her. A third almost eats her hat. Lotus closes her eyes and take a deep breath, imagines dancing with Dante back at the bar.

Then, she bolts out from behind cover and slides around the end of the pews. She swings as if with a partner, dipping and twirling around each successive shot. They’re back in front of the altar when he finally runs out of ammo and she closes in for the kill. He swings his shotguns like cudgels, but she flows around every blow, still dancing.

She hops over a low sweep and traps one shotgun between her knees, then twists it out the Shootist’s grip. The rotation carries her into an elbow jab to his face and, while he’s reeling, she kicks his other gun across the cathedral. She reaps one leg out from under him, catches his neck in a headlock, and presses her pistol against his skull.

“This is for my husband, who deserved worse than he got.”