New Shooter: All it takes is a new set of clothes from a body on the street. Does the new shooter feel lucky? Well, yes… yes, he does… short drabble.

Luck. They say real men don't need it. Or that they make their own, or something like that. He knew he wasn't a real man, not like everyone else, but he'd still never believed in the stuff before. Maybe it had just never been on his side.

But he knew now. You can't make your own luck, man or not. Maybe you can make a few of the right decisions to send you on your way, but that's not luck at all. Being shoved on a plane at the last minute and ending up wandering the Las Vegas Strip in plain clothes, the world in his hands, was luck. He had had nothing to do with it.

It was luck that had put him on that plane. Luck that had seen the plane in sympathetic hands before he even embarked. Luck that had landed it right in the middle of Vegas. Luck that had placed some poor man's body right in front of him, perfectly his size.

And sheer stupidity that had ensured nobody recognised him. His picture had been on every lamppost on the Eastern Sea Board for months when they were looking for him, one would think someone would put two and two together. Especially considering the fact that an aeroplane full of America's most dangerous criminals had just crashed in the middle of the street.

Lucky everyone trusted their Police. Lucky they were all on holiday and excited by gambling. Lucky no-one saw him drag someone's dead body behind the plane, strip him and don his clothes.

Garland Greene strode straight into the middle of a game now being conducted in the middle of the street. "New shooter," the dealer called out in that typical commentator-voice. "New shooter comin' up. And does the new shooter feel lucky?"

Greene felt a grin creep across his pallid face. "Yes," he said easily, accepting a cocktail from somebody behind him, eyeing up the woman next to him and thinking how amazingly lucky it was that he could take her home and kill her later so easily. "Yes, he does."