A light-skinned man sits alone in his office. His trademark trilby hat is tossed thoughtlessly across his desk; a bent cigarette is nearby, left smoldering in an ashtray. His shirt is stained with blood — some of it might even be his own. He's got a slug of bourbon in his hand, a slug of lead buried in his chest, and 6 more waiting for the next son of a bitch who comes through that door — courtesy of his .44. Murphy Law: So what are you doing in my office, kid?