R2 cane rifle dodge

Only one of these folk was hardy enough to approach him. Even though he had just come tumbling out of the sky like a meteorite, even though he perfectly matched the description of the raging, violent assassin all over the news, a shawl-wrapped, hunch-backed old woman was approaching him. Her cane clack-clacked against the floor with every step, her face hidden under the shawl.

"Are you alright?" the aged one asked. Hale brushed the debris off his bare shoulders, and put his hands on his hips in a heroic pose.

"I'm right as rain, Sheila. What do you want, an autograph?" Hale pulled a marker from his shorts pocket. A high-powered hustlegrinder like him had to be prepared for this situation, in all situations.

She beckoned him. As a seven-foot-tall man, Hale had to squat down low to be able to speak face-to-face with the strange old woman.

"There is one, small thing I would like you to do for me," she wheezed. Hale's marker uncapped, and he scanned the area for any sign of a stuffed Saxton Hale doll, or one of his adventure comics, or a picture of his chest hair.

"Yes? What can I do for you?" he asked, distracted.

Click.

Saxton's mouth had been open for just a moment to inhale, but that moment was enough time for the old woman to jam the long end of her cane directly in his mouth, the tip poking against his uvula. She held it in a strange way, hand loosely gripping the head, finger wrapped around a partially-hidden metal trigger.

"Perish."

The muffled BANG of the cane-rifle came out more like a BHOOMPH in Hale's throat. His head jerked back suddenly, his body thundering against the ground, smoke rising from his nostrils and between his lips. The old lady casually pumped her cane and expended the spent shell from the barrel, reloading.

"Well! That was fine enough sport for today," she said.

The old woman suddenly cast aside her disguise, standing at a full, tall height to rival Hale himself. She--no, he was a thin, lean man, silver-haired and stoic-faced, with a truly magnificent 'stache. Underneath the disguise that had clung to him like a second skin, the impeccable imposter wore a dapper red-velvet suit with a lengthy cape draped over one shoulder, fluffed with a vibrant blue pattern. Like butterfly wings in a kaleidoscope.

"Certainly, you're already dead," the man murmured, taking careful aim at the prone body of Hale. "But I could always look for an even more certain certainty. Exactitude is one of my faults, you see. The only thing that can abate this concern of mine is pumping a few more rounds into you."

He fingered the trigger again. Click.

BANG.

Hale sat up ramrod straight and punched the bullet out of the air, deflecting it with the bones of his knuckles and sending it into the ceiling. The man whistled.

"My, that's surprising. I know conventional weapons can't pierce your skin, but I assumed the inner lining of your throat would be much more penetrable. Perhaps I miscalculated? Or..."

He reached into his pocket and produced his spectacles, peering through them until his gaze fixed on a fine hole in the coffeeshop counter.

"You dodged the bullet after it fired inside of your mouth!" he said, suddenly quite pleased with himself. "I knew my calculations wouldn't be off. All that failed was my assessment of your behavior. I never suspected you'd try to dive out of the way, or even be capable of such a thing."