The bad guy always wears a mask

It was hot and the sun was blazing down. Sir Fynwy realized with clichéd appropriateness that this was high noon. He sensed, rather than saw, the tumbleweed rolling across the ground in front of him.

All too soon his adversary was upon him. Sir Fynwy didn’t hear him coming, he was very stealthy. The man was tall and slim, a mask hiding his face. No-one would know him or recognize him. No wanted posters would feature his face. His eyes were cold. He’d been here before. Sir Fynwy didn’t stand a chance. The muscle memory of past battles wracked his body. Would this be as bad?

Sir Fynwy reached down to touch his belt, a flash of alarm as he realized he was unarmed. Behind the mask the hit man sneered. He had already drawn his weapon and was advancing on Sir Fynwy with deceptive speed.  Sir Fynwy just caught a glance of it as the sun reflected from the barrel. He was sure it wasn’t a gun – perhaps this was to be a knife fight?

He felt the crunch of his jaw as the man’s weapon landed and almost immediately could taste the blood in his mouth.

The man took one step back and turned off the lamp above his head.

The sun went out.

God, I hate going to the dentist