最后一搏 One Last Shot

他被围困在一间空荡荡的酒吧里，身上十几处伤口都流着血，一群带着武器的人堵在外面等着要杀死他。格雷福斯现在的处境不太妙，但他也遭遇过更恶劣的情况，所以他现在还不觉得担心。他附身探过吧台，给自己提了一瓶酒，瞄了一眼商标，一声叹息。

Holed up in an empty bar, bleeding from a dozen wounds and surrounded by armed men who wanted him dead, Malcolm Graves had seen better days. He’d seen worse ones, too, so he wasn’t worried yet. Graves leaned over the smashed bar and helped himself to a bottle, sighing as he read the label.

“德玛西亚酒？你这儿就这种货色？”

“Demacian wine? That all you got?”

“这是我家最贵的一瓶酒了…”酒吧老板躲在吧台下面颤抖着说，他身边的碎玻璃连成一片海洋，波光粼粼。格雷福斯环顾四周，对着残破的酒吧露出一抹苦笑。

“It’s the most expensive bottle I have...” said the innkeeper, cowering below the bar in a glittering ocean of broken glass.

“我敢说这也是你家最后的一瓶酒了。”

Graves looked around the bar and grinned.

酒吧老板浑身上下写满了“惶恐”二字。他显然不太习惯自己的酒吧成为枪战现场。这里不是比尔吉沃特，这里的酒吧斗殴不会一天打十次，更不会死人。这里是皮特沃夫，这个城市比格雷福斯的老家更加文明。至少在某些方面是这样的。

“I reckon it’s the only bottle you got left.”

他用嘴咬开瓶塞，吐到地板上，然后学着那些富人的样子，含上一口酒，先咂摸半天，再咽到肚里。

The man had panic written all over him. He clearly wasn’t used to being in the middle of a gunfight. This wasn’t Bilgewater, where fatal brawls broke out ten times a day. Piltover was regarded a more civilized city than Graves’s hometown. In some ways, at least.

“一股尿味，”他说，“不过乞丐怎么能挑三拣四呢，嗯？”

He yanked the cork free with his teeth and spat it to the floor before taking a swig. He swilled it around his mouth like he’d seen rich folks do before swallowing it.

一个声音突然从破碎的窗户外面大喊，一听就知道是仗着人多势众的假把式。

“Pisswater,” he said, “but beggars can’t be choosers, huh?”

“放弃吧，格雷福斯。我们七个对你一个。肯定是吃不了兜着走。”

A voice shouted through the broken windows, buoyed with confidence it hadn’t earned and the false bravado of numbers.

“这话在理！”格雷福斯吼了回去。“如果你想活着回家，最好再去多叫点人来！”

“Give it up, Graves. There’s seven of us to one of you. This ain’t going to end well.”

他又猛灌了一大口，然后把酒瓶放在吧台上。

“Damn straight it ain’t,” hollered Graves in return. “If you want to walk away from this, you best go fetch more men!”

“该干活了，”他自言自语道，随即从吧台上拎起了自己独一无二的散弹枪。

He took another swig from the bottle, then put it down on the bar.

格雷福斯把崭新的子弹塞进枪膛，发出了清脆的咔嚓声，这声音带着夺命的震慑力，而且响亮得足够大到让窗外的人听见。所有认识他的人都知道这意味着什么。

“Time to get to work,” he said, lifting his one-of-a-kind shotgun from the bar.

这名法外狂徒滑下了酒吧高脚凳，走向大门，脚下碎玻璃踩得咯吱咯吱响。他探身向前，从窗户缝向外窥探。四个人蹲在临时掩体后面：两个躲在正对面华丽店铺的二层楼，两个藏在侧面走廊的阴影里。全都端着十字弓或者毛瑟滑膛枪，蓄势待发。

Graves reloaded, pushing fresh shells home. The weapon snapped together with a satisfyingly lethal sound, loud enough to carry to the men outside. Anyone who knew him would know that sound and what it meant.

“我们满世界追着你跑，你个狗杂种，”同样的声音再次叫嚣。“悬赏令上没说一定要抓活的。所以你老实走出来，把你那门大炮举过头顶，大家就都不用见血。”

The outlaw slid off the barstool and made his way to the door, glass crunching beneath his boot heels. He stooped to glance through a cracked window. Four men crouched behind makeshift cover: two on the upper floor of a fancy workshop, another two in shadowed doorways to either side. All held crossbows or muskets at the ready.

“噢，我马上就出来，”格雷福斯大叫着说。“你们着什么急。”

“We tracked you halfway across the world, you son of a bitch,” shouted the same voice. “Bounty didn’t say nothin’ about you being alive or dead. Walk out now with that cannon of yours held high and there don’t need to be no more bloodshed.”

他从兜里摸出一枚银蛇币，掷向吧台。银币旋转着滑过洒满朗姆酒的台面，正面朝上。一只颤抖的手伸过来摸走了银币。格雷福斯微笑起来。

“Oh, I’m comin’ out,” shouted Graves. “Don’t you worry none about that.”

“用来买你家正门的。”他说。

He drew a silver serpent from his pocket and flipped it onto the bar, where it spun through a pool of spilled rum before landing heads up. A trembling hand reached up to take it. Graves grinned.

“我家正门？”酒吧老板问。

“That’s for the door,” he said.

格雷福斯甩起一脚，踹飞了酒吧正门，然后纵身一跃，冲出残缺不全的门框。他一个翻滚，单膝跪地，散弹枪举到腰际，火舌喷吐如电。

“What about the door?” asked the innkeeper.

“来吧，狗东西！”他咆哮起来。“我们来个了断！”

Graves hammered his boot into the inn’s front door, smashing it from its hinges. He dove through the splintered frame, rolling to one knee, gun blasting from the hip.

“Alright, you bastards!” he roared. “Let’s finish this!”