"He's a good dancer." Sorry, Roulette. They just haven't bonded a lot yet (that he's willing to admit to)!

The name that drops out of Roulette's lips freezes Boothill in place. The words that follow... if he was still made of flesh and bone he'd be sick right now, but they do unfreeze him, his finger folding out into a gun barrel as he fires straight at that creepy mask, just to get him to shut the fuck up.

The bullet pierces the mask but not Roulette's head, burying itself in a mirror directly behind where it would have been, shattering Boothill's stricken reflection into a hundred spiderwebbed pieces. He glares around him, searching for a sign of the Fool. "Where'd ya go, Funnybones? Get the fudge back here! We ain't done!"