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A sodden weight of mud and metal pressed close to your inner pocket. The peculiar hinged length, the lever-armature of its trigger-guard, prods uncomfortably against your chest. What could this be?
>Reply (feign boastful drunken street slang) well blow me tight, guv'nor, I'm jiggered meself. I knows a way 'round a skewer and a barking iron. Feast your leerers on this - (brandish the revolver carelessly) six-tooth bulldogs dug out the muck o' the Old Armistice - that there was a war worth a drop of piss on the foot of a flea. I ain't no bantling actin' the deceitful - I sees a Skinner, a bilking Whitebeak, I sends them a cripple to the Duke o' Limbs, sluice their gobs by the Nunnery; darken their daylights i' the Black Cove.
(QM: if you can recognise the make of this firearm, you have a feeling your swaggering deception will prove more successful)
