Editing Three of Hearts: 'Cerberus'

I want to tell you a story. Please sit down, I'll order you a drink.

There was a man I used to know named O'Henry. O'Henry was a 65 year old Irishman, a drunk old bastard who'd always have a tall tale to tell. So one day, the red-haired bastard decides to pick a fight with three little lads from out west, probably from Idaho or Iowa or something. These little brats' ages combined weren't even close to O'Henry's, but he was far too drunk to care. He usually was.

All four of them, and myself, we walk outside. The little western bastards all laugh about how they have "real shooting irons" straight from Smythe and Wesson. They probably got them as presents from their rich parents, I muse, and they've probably never even used 'em for combat before now. Even so, they're young, and probably quicker on the draw then 'ole O'Henry. Also, there was no way a man his age could hope to win three duels in a row!

The little brown haired punk looks at O'Henry. "Well old man?" he says in a nasally, upper-crust voice. "Who's first?"

"I'll take ya all on at once, ya greasy little sods!" His voice, it's starting to slur a bit around the edges. He doesn't seem to notice.

The boys crack out laughing. "Riiiiight," says the black haired one. I want to punch this little spitfuck in his dumb face, but I resist the urge. I pull on O'Henry's arm.

"You sure you want to go through with this, old man?"

He looks at me with a grin. "Trust me, boy. I got a little present from a stranger last night, during a poker game. Nice guy. You'll like it, I promise."

I walk back, and the four of 'em, they take positions. Old man O'Henry on one side, the little spitfucks from Idaho or some shit on the other. They wait for the bell.

It goes off. O'Henry, he pulls out the weirdest fucking gun I ever saw. Three barrels, and one trigger. He pulls it, and three bangs echo out. Before the little spoiled brats can even try to pull their guns out, they're already dead, each with a bullet right through the skull.

"How'd you..." I stammer, my breath taken away.

He laughs. "Little Cerberus 'ere, me boy. Three a' Hearts. I don't even gotta aim, she does all da aimin fer me, and even hits two other targets. Pretty handy for a old sod like meself, eh, boy?" He laughs and pulls me back in, and we drink for the rest of the night.

I bring this up because some bastard in black killed my friend a while back. From what I gather his name is Crockett. All I know about him is he clicked the barrel of an empty Derringer at his head, and what he told O'Henry right after that, three days before the old bastard's death:
"The Iowa family sends their regards."

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