Another opportunity to fuck up a good book

Rico says that True West reports that there's now a sequel to The Shootist. Not only did John Wayne not let them film it the way it was written (with the asshole son of Lauren Bacall, played by Ron Howard, shooting JB Books and taking his revolvers), but now there's a followup book, The Last Shootist, written by Glendon Swartout's son, Miles, that has Gillom Rogers (please, please, don't let Ron Howard try and reprise his role as that asshole; direct, sure, just use someone, anyone, else) taking Books' revolvers and making a name for himself as a shootist...

The final scene from Glendon Swarthout’s novel,  The Shootist, is now the prologue to The Last Shootist:

Gillom Rogers inched through the doors of the Constantinople. Eyes watering from the smoke, he gaped at Jay Cobb and Serrano and Koopmann, and at Jack Pulford, seated  against the wall.  Skirting the three bodies near the bar, avoiding the blood and brains as best he could, he looked over the bar, then scuffled in wonder through the carnage of glass behind it. A dollar bill stopped him. He put it in his pants pocket which held the other money. A black-handled Remington lay in the walkway. He picked it up and holding his breath approached the prone man, who seemed small to him now, even puny.
“Mister Books?”
He saw the torn coat and the blood on it and the right arm extended stiffly, gun aimed. He moved slowly to Books’ side, bending.
“It’s me, Gillom,” he said.
He got down on his knees. Books was incapable of speech.  His chin was clamped  upon his left wrist. Gillom did not care to look into the face, but the eyes arrested him. They considered. They considered not only the archway, as though something implacable waited on the other side, but something transcendent beyond that as well, far beyond.
“Mister Books, it’s me, Gillom.”
The mouth opened.  Nothing inaudible issued from it, but the lips formed two words: “kill” and “me”.
“Kill you?” Gillom chewed his lips. “Sure thing,” he said, then stood, moved behind the man, straddled him, and put the muzzle of the revolver he had picked up to the back of the head. He turned his own head away; shut his eyes tight, gritted his teeth, and pulled the trigger.
The hammer clicked. “Shit,” he groaned. He despaired, aware on the rim of his consciousness of the smoke and the reek of the air and the solemnity of the fans.  He got down on his knees again beside the prone man and worked at the fingers clenching the pearl handle of the second Remington, prying them free until he possessed that weapon, too.
He stood again, straddled the prone man, and put the muzzle of the revolver to the back of John Bernard Books’ head a second time, into the hair. He turned his own head away; shut his eyes tight; gritted his teeth; and pulled the trigger.
He walked out of the Constantinople into chaste air. A crowd of men and boys had gathered across the street. Waiting for a buggy to pass, then a buckboard, he crossed the street to the crowd.
“What happened in there?” At least six asked.
“They’re all dead,” said Gillom.
“Who?”
“J.B. Books. Jay Cobb. Jack Pulford. A Mex name of Serrano, a rustler. And some guy I don’t know who. A big guy. He killed ‘em all.”
“Who?”
“Books.”
Someone had counted. “Five! Whooeee!”
“Jesus Christ, boys, he killed every hard case around!” someone exulted. “Jesus, boys, we fin’ly got us a clean town!”
“Oughta put up a statue of the murderin’ bastard!” someone else enthused.
“These are his guns.” Gillom held them up for all to covet.  “He gave ‘em to  me before he died.”
“Look at that!”
“Short barrel, no sight, specials by God... hey, kid, wanna sell ‘em?”
“Hell, no,” said Gillom. He grinned and waved at the Constantinople. “Okay, folks, step right over and see the show!  Drinks on the house!”
As the crowd tided across the street, Gillom Rogers strode away down it, swinging a gun in each hand. An alchemy of false spring sunlight turned the nickel of the Remingtons to silver. He strode head up, shoulders back, taller to himself, having sensations he had never known before. One gun was still warm in his hand, the bite of the smoke was in his nose and   the taste of death on his tongue.  His heart was high in his gullet, the danger past, and now the sweat, suddenly, and the nothingness, and the sweet clean feel of being born.

Rico says you may have gathered that he hated Ron Howard in that role, but that wouldn't be a strong enough word...