In the Deathroom (28)
Ramón shrieked and jerked backward. His right hand rose toward his face, where the still-burning cigarette hung askew in the socketof his eye, but his left hand remained on Fletcher’s shoulder. It was now tightened down to a clamp, and when he stepped back, Ramón pulled Fletcher’s chair over. Fletcher spilled out of it, rolled over, and got to his feet.
Heinz was screaming something, words, maybe, but to Fletcher he sounded like a girl of about ten screaming at the sight of a singing idol—one of the Hansons, perhaps. Escobar wasn’t making any noise at all and that was bad.
Fletcher didn’t look back at the table. He didn’t have to look to know that Escobar was coming for him. Instead he shot both hands forward, grabbed the butt of Ramón’s revolver, and pulled it from its holster. Fletcher didn’t think Ramón ever knew it was gone. He was screaming a flood of Spanish and pawing at his face. He struck the cigarette but instead of coming free it broke off, the burning end still stuck in his eye.
Taken From:Stephen king everything’s eventual
