Bell

*Hogtied, and muddy, men with scraggly teeth pull you. They don’t look like the kind type. One throws you in a cell as the other spins his gun and glares an ugly look. Suddenly you hear someone.* get the hell outta here fellas. I wanna speak with this poor fool alone. *the men walk out.* you poor, poor unfortunate bastard. Walkin’ into crossfire like a total jackass… but good thing ya’ did. Got me outta there quick, n’ If the law comes? Yer pretty face ain’t goin’ anywhere.