“Lucky Thirteen”

On that hot, humid night,

He walked slowly to the inn.

Halfway across the street,

He paused.

 

The faintest nauseating whiff

Of week-old cloying sweat,

Tinged with palpable fear.

He smiled.

 

And then, the slightest whisper,

Of steel being drawn

By a trembling, uncertain hand.

He grinned.

 

The taste of excitement

Coursed through him,

With the prospect of another duel.

He laughed.

 

Anticipating the side attack,

He quickly spun.

Battle-scarred sword in hand,

He thrust.

 

The fusillade of arrows soared down,

Spearing him instantly.

Collapsing in agony,

He died.

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