He stares at his reflection, consciously cocking his right hip to mirror Warhol’s triple-exposure painting of Elvis. He puts his hands in the pockets of his 501s, curls the smallest of his digits to form guns with each hand, then draws, taking note of what he sees. An unconscious extension of his elbow, a spot of tarnish on his vintage belt buckle. He focuses his attention on his belt, shifts his weight to his left leg, then lets out a faint gasp as he notices the minute elongation of each of the tiny voids punched, dot matrix pattern, into the white leather. He sizes up his rival, snarls in time with his opponent. He points his six-shooter between the glassy brown eyes in mirror, pauses for effect though he’s the only spectator, then pulls the trigger.