Mort felt relieved. He wasn't crazy, he wasn't. John Shooter invaded your mind, made sane people think they were mad. Well, Mort wasn't fooled. Oh no, John Shooter had gone now.
It took a few hours. A few hours to realise how scared, weak and vulnerable he felt.
John Shooter didn't know how to be scared. He wasn't a complete person. All Mort had created was a Mississippi resident with a black hat and a cruel, deliberate nature. He hadn't got feelings, or a soul. He was a picture, superimposed on the world by Mort's overactive imagination. There was nothing behind him, like one of those tall facades you saw on cowboy buildings in the old movies. But the trouble was, you never saw that, were never able to look round the side and see he was just a 2D picture. He turned with you, like a painting whose eyes followed you round the room. John Shooter was too sane. But he wasn't all there.
Mort never had been good at character development.
It was unnaturally dark outside. The wind was too cold and the trees too tall. Mort was seated on the sofa, in the glaring floodlight. He wanted sleep. He wanted sleep so badly. But the light pinned his eyes open, and he dare not turn it off, for fear of the darkness. For fear that John Shooter would rekindle in his mind, while he was in blissful sleep, only to bulldoze over his conscious self, and lock him away in his own head. No, he couldn't turn the lights off.
John Shooter awoke on the couch. His head hurt, and his body ached. It had been a long night. He'd been patient. Rainey had drifted away into a ghost of a sleep, and Shooter had jumped on his chance. They'd fought for hours. Shooter was weakened by the agony of the light, but Rainey was weaker. He couldn't fully accept he was crazy; there was so much doubt in his head. John Shooter was sane. John Shooter was so sane he was crazier than Mort in more ways than one. He won.
He crawled off the sofa, fell to the floor and scrabbled over to the lights. He could barely see but pure determination drove him on. And suddenly...
NO!
Who the Hell are you?
Mort Rainey, you ignorant hick.
Get the heck away, Mr Rainey. I'm a sane man, and I don't hear no Goddamn voices!
Shooter lay still. This wasn't right. He was sane! Perfectly sane! Rainey didn't have the imagination to think up an insane 2D picture.
You're right I don't. But you do.
What the Hell are you on about, Mr Rainey?
I didn't give you a soul, Mr Shooter; I didn't give you any emotions. But I did give you an imagination.
"SHUT UP!"
Shooter stared around him. This wasn't allowed. Mort was cheating. Cheating!
You're losing at your own game, Mr Shooter.
Shooter ignored the voice, and gripped the lights power cable.
"You don't want me to do this, do you?"
Oh I'd love you to.
No you don't! You're bluffing Mr Rainey!
John Shooter tugged. The lights went out with a fizzing noise. The world turned into one dark hole. John sat in the dark and shivered.
"Goodbye, Mr Rainey."
Hello, Mr Shooter.