Monty's bullet pierced straight through the bandits skull, splitting it apart like a watermelon bashed open with a sledgehammer. Then it kept going, blowing yet another hole in the wall behind him, traveling for about a mile into the desert. The inside of the diner resembled a slaughterhouse, like all the other times it did. The cashier was ducked behind the counter, next to a waitress, smoking cigarrettes like it was just another day of work. There were about 6 bandits still standing, most of them brandishing Handguns of some kind. One of them stood at the front, wielding a switchblade. The last one wasn't even worried, finishing off his drink with one gulp.

"Everyone be cool!", he said, in a sort of booming, deep voice. It was a bald, bony, middle aged man, with tanned skin and a pair of metallic slits where his nose used to be. He wore black robes, handkerchief covering his neck, and holstered a huge, silver crucifix much like a gunslinger. He stood up, and walked towards the man with the shotgun. "Do you really believe the odds are in your favor?" he asked rhetorically. "You are not the only one with gifts. You will unhand our companion and leave," he stated, like it was a matter of fact. "Or you will risk death at our hands." He gripped his crucifix, awaiting a response.