"Can I ask you sommin', marshal?" It's quiet out on the porch, especially at night. No crickets. No birds. Barely even the sound of the wind tickling the brims of their hats as crispy leaves sweep across the deserted footpath. Doc is leaning back against his favoured pillar, smoking a cigarette. It's not a cigarillo, but. This particular beggar is not in the mood to be choosing.

With his feet crossed at the ankles, his right elbow atop the rails supports his weight. The other, dangling loosely, tends to the cigarette when the barrel of ashes get too long.

"You ever thought of yourself as a serial killer?" He is a US Marshal who had taught firearms; he must have shot more than just tin cans and paper targets. And if he has killed multiple people, one after another, then, well. Is that not what serial means?