The Fist with the pen in his neck was sitting on the floor watching her 
calmly. She aimed the rifle his way, and he held up one hand and looked down 
and away. His wound was bleeding, but not all that much; she had ruined his 
week but not hit anything big. She reflected that it was probably a healthy 
thing for him in the long run to be rid of the superstition that he was immune 
to weapons.