Weird West Quick Draw Flash Fiction Contest 2025 Third Place Winner

Suck the Marrow Clean

by J. Needham

When Danny agrees to a shootout in a corrupt cowtown, he knows death ain’t the end. It’s only the beginning.

Most towns we pass are dry-up, hungry kinds of towns. Ranchers herding rib-thin cows and dusty kids that steal from saddle bags. Pick your meat off them bones and suck the marrow clean kind of towns.

Galloping Gorge ain’t that kind of town.

The getting is good here, and I plan to get. 

“You boys sure?” the fat stack mayor asks as he holds out our two pistols, checked for fairness. Can’t be cheating now. The irony in a corrupt cowtown isn’t lost on me. “Don’t want to kiss and make up instead?” he sneers, eyeing Jack. Jack’s slighter with long hair that’s decades out of style. He gets the worst flack from these ‘upstanding’ towns because he smells like a woman and dresses dandy.

“Nah, I’d rather blast a hole through this fucker’s chest,” Jack says and spins his pistol, pretends to aim it at my heart, and holsters it. 

The gathering crowd jeers and I know a few men with rich blood and deep pockets take the low odds on Jack. There’s a feral, coyote look to him if you know where to look. Most don’t.

I do.

“That bad of blood, huh?” The mayor laughs and slaps me on the back. He must think I’m the problem. “Alright then, meet in the middle, ten paces, and shoot on three. Any bullet hits the crowd and you’ve got one hell of a funeral to pay for in these parts, so keep it clean.”

“You got it, mister,” I say and holster my pistol. “Eat-off-the-floor clean.”

“You? Clean? Come on now.” Jack laughs.

I knock my shoulder against his before we begin our paces. 

Ain’t no tumbleweeds or crow caws here, only the fancy-dressed townsfolk chattering like this shoot-out is the icing to another pleasant afternoon. The town only hushes when we twist and face off across Main Street. 

“One.”

I lick my lips, as my hunger for blood kicks up like a stallion.

“Two.”

Jack tilts his head, the noon sun glinting off his maroon eyes. I’d blast a hole in each, but I know better and aim for his heart, just like he asked. 

“Three.”

The only sound is the whiz of our hands, the snap of the button on our holsters.

And the BANG BANG as I whip my gun up and discharge two rounds right before Jack can. My bullets slam into Jack’s chest, throwing him backwards. He groans, rolling in the sand like a pill-bug, nursing the gunshot right through his ribs. He makes a good show of thrashing, choking, cursing my name. “D-Damn you, Danny! I’ll kill you in the next life!” 

I walk over, ignoring the cheers of the rich folk scrambling to take their winnings from the betting women. I lay the heel of my boot on Jack’s chest, right over his bolo tie. I pull off my rancher hat and make sure our eyes meet as I grin, letting my canines show. “I win this time. Dinner’s on you.”

“Fuck you.” Jack’s grins and his cow lashes flutter closed as he dies.

The town pulls closer, the mayor walking over to congratulate me. He side steps Jack’s body like it’s choleric while the undertaker grabs Jack’s ankles to drag him to the morgue. I hate when they treat Jack like trash for looking queer. They never treat my corpse that way, and I’m a hell of a lot dirtier than him.

“You really should talk to our men about joining the Sheriff’s office.” The mayor pulls out a small sack of cash, a meagre cut from the betting pools. Greedy bastards. “A sharpshooter like you? Could make a killing here.” 

“Strange, that’s exactly what he plans to do.”

The mayor starts as Jack’s corpse answers. “What—What the hells and the devils!” 

Jack’s body raises from the street as if pulled up by an invisible string. He knocks dust off his paisley shirt. “Y’all already take too much. He’s staying mine.” Jack plucks the sweaty hand off me and yanks the mayor forward. Hot blood splatters across my face as Jack rips his fangs through the mayor’s artery. He’s a messy drinker and the sight fires me up to launch at the undertaker.

Galloping Gorge isn’t hushed anymore. Oh no. They are screaming, the bravest of them firing useless shots at us, the weakest running to their fancy houses as we finish the appetizer and turn towards our meal. 

It’s just so much easier to hunt this way, gathering them together like they do their cattle. And, sweet Louise, these townsfolk are as rich blooded as I thought. 

I sprouted in a hungry outpost, dreaming of half the stolen gold these folk wear on their wrists and starving for half the love Jack offered me. And while I might have left my hometown cold-blooded and holding Jack’s soft hand, I never did let the poor boy habits go. I still snap these jewelled limbs like broth bones and suck out the pink marrow, chasing the hollow with my tongue for scraps. 

With a thirsty gasp, Jack drops the final woman atop our pile of corpses in the town square. His pupils are wide saucers, his fangs pink with blood. Even after a century together, I never tire of the sight. 

“Let’s start the pilfering with his house,” Jack kicks the mayor’s purpling, outstretched hand, “before these blood bags start stinking.” His fingers brush against the hole in his own heart. “Nice shot by the way, darling—”

I wind my hand around the bolo tie and interrupt him with a bloody kiss. Jack, ever the bossy motherfucker, takes control almost immediately and pushes me towards the mayor’s house where I know he’ll sweeten behind closed doors.

For now he rips me back by the hair and I can only stare at his bloody lips. “—But next time I’m winning. Got it, Danny?”

I nod, obedient. Gods, how I love him. “In the next life,” I promise.

About The Author

J. is a cryptid who lives somewhere in the North with their fiancée and evil little dog. They love writing about queer people—both the inspiring heroic and pathetic morally grey kinds.