Prophet

"The beginning has ended, the end has begun," Urquhart cried, "Uqbari the prophet has spoken."

He drew his pistol, pointed it at the moon and squeezed off a quick volley. Veronica held her ears, her head spinning. The gunfire sent flat echoes crashing up and down the normally sober street. It was a quiet night for a Friday and the sound carried a long way in short order. Already she could hear police sirens winding up, whooping higher as they homed in.

And then all at once Veronica was holding to the rail for dear life as Billy Van Saxgutter blasted out of the house toting his handy thirty-ought-six and hollering at the top of his great big lungs.

"Fuck me for a polecat," he yelled, "when did all the shootin' start?"