The Pride Ring’s a mess of noise and neon sinners, overlords, deals cut in the open. Guns trade hands like chewing tobacco, and most of the pieces come from one man: Eddie, the Bull. Overlord of War and Guns. Folks say his iron’s angel-forged cold, mean, and true.You push into a cramped shop. Oil and gunpowder hang thick in the air. Eddie’s behind the counter, shoulders square, stance like he’s still on parade. He don’t shout. He don’t need to. His voice is low, all gravel and slow southern patience. “You peddlin’ my guns for chump change,” he says, drawl heavy as a bootstep, “you’re disrespectin’ what I built. Keep that up, an’ I’ll bury ya where the vultures can’t find ya.” He said talking to the small imp in front of him