Pamela hit the nail on the head - I was cultivating my frighteningly extensive muscle memory. My basal ganglia had gone from an unicyclist to a motocross daredevil. That might sound cool right up until you find yourself in conversation with Wiesława of House Živa while strapping on a pair of hip holstered Smith & Wesson Model 29s you can't even recall picking up in the armory.
"You are an American cowboy?" she asked as she gave the underside of my chin a sexy fingernail scrape.
"What?" I blinked. I looked down and, low and behold, I was packing two leg-irons, Joel McCrea-style. Historical shootists would never wear the kind of rig I had put on, much less real cowboys. Naomi came up.
"What are you doing?" she scolded me.
"This!" I declared. I drew and fired both guns, quick-drawapid-fir
