The Death of Billy the Kid

What would I say to Billy the Kid before I shot him?

I lay down to sleep, and enter the dark, fluttering aether 

as daylight fades. I sink into the darkness that can take me to another century, 

and I find myself in the desert, at night. 

I am sheriff Pat Garrett, and Billy the Kid is at the end of my pistol. The hammer cocked back, and the 

nickel shimmers in the candlelight. Standing there, with shabby clothes. Dusty, musty clothes, and the crooked 

toothed look of the infamous outlaw.

"Quien es? Quien es?" ("Who is it? Who is it?") He asks, trembling.

"Billy," I says

"Your light is about to be swallowed up. But you're a cowboy, you wouldn't want to survive to the 20th Century. It's 1881, and believe me, son, you don't want to see the 1900s. All the cowboys, the indians, the horses, their light is about to be swallowed by the end of the century. Your light is going to be swallowed up by something horrible and modern, something electric and something metal. Better to die now in fantastic blaze of infamy, than to suffer the worst fate known to man: growing old. If you die in 50 years, you'll just be Henry McCarty. If you die now, you'll be "Billy the Kid." You will have achieved the thing that every man wants, but can't necessarily achieved if you live to 100: meaning." 

I pull the trigger back and there is a terrible, easy, efficient, and thunderous roar. A spark of fire, a flash of light, and a charge of smoke, and the dream is over.