Chapter Two

Society reached. What will it hold?

What a welcoming name for a town. Dead appears nestled in the coziest valley of these ghostly black hills. A half demolished sign with the decrepit lettering standing sentry at the town line, a thick black D followed in succession by the E-A-D where the thin oak board is broken away by some force decades ago. In the doom and gloom of this dreary, rainy morning, the scene is set perfectly for a town with such a name. The thick presence of ancient death also helps drive the feeling home.

Rugged timber homes with tarnished aluminum roofs and cloudy windows line the street, with many of them burning bright lanterns within. It's hard to tell the hour with the overcast sky, but the wanderer doesn't believe the sun has risen yet. It's busy shining upon some other part of the planet. Marduk, his loyal rodent friend, scurries along beneath the elevated skirts attached to the buildings to avoid the cold drizzle.

The once hidden path they have been traveling for the past six weeks is now fully visible as it bisects the town. Rain has turned it into a swampy road of thick, aromatic mud. An unnatural amalgamation of earth, tar and animal feces.

Deeper into the borough, the distinct sensation of curious eyes burn holes through the wanderer. As the town folk awaken for a new day, they peer through their shutters to inspect the new arrivals. What did this disarrayed traveller want? Was he a trapper, a trader, a hunter, a murderer? The rare spectacle of a gun on his back points to either hunter or murderer.

As the sun peeks up over the horizon behind the black clouds causing the day to brighten slightly, civilians cautiously filter into the streets to start another day in their little lives. Their glances can all be felt but disappear instantly before eye contact can be made.

After a brief lap around the little town, which has become active and bustling, the wanderer finds the local saloon and inn, a large two story hovel with thick oaken walls and the only shiny metallic roof in the settlement. The porch squeaks gently as it bares his weight and he lumbers through a thick glass pair of double doors. The aroma clouding the warm saloon smells of whiskey, tobacco, woodsmoke and the distinct scent of feminine allure.

There is no human traffic at the bar as the broad-shouldered barkeep snoozes silently under the brim of his hat. Hotel patrons steadily funnel from their rooms as their stomachs have urged them from sleep. Their faces sit long and remorseful over pencil necks and slouched shoulders, the rain has created a impermeable gloom in the pit of every stomach. A wet, moldy depression that only builds on their lifeless anxiety.

As the wanderer takes a seat at the bar, Marduk scurries up his leg and perches lifelessly across his shoulders in order to look like a mere animal skin. The wanderer produces his whiskey flask and places it on the table firmly to jostle the bar tender from sleep. Startled, his head jerks up to view the visitor and a shotgun appears in his bear-paw hands almost as if by magic.

"Jesus Christ partner. That's a way to get your head blown clear off," he grumbles through yellow teeth and stubbly jowls. The startle apparently jostled the wind from his lungs as his superior belly pushes in and out trying to gain back the breath he has lost.

"Excuse me. Can I get a fill and a shot."

"Sure thing partner, that'll be a fiver."

"Alright here," the wanderer slides five small coins across the bar as his flask is filled and his shot is poured. "And don't call me partner."

"Fair enough."

As the wanderer downs the shot, a fiery hot trail of incendiary liquid scorches the back of his throat and settles as a lump of searing lead in the pit of his belly. The clear tequila instantly takes hold as it's psychedelic properties momentarily turn the room on it's axis. Once his squinted face recovers from the alcoholic shock, he turns back to the barkeep who hasn't taken his eyes off the stranger. A thousand different flavors of caution glitter in his amber brown eyes.

"Who do I see about a room?"

"Kourtland should be down in a few."

"And Kourtland is?"

"You didn't see the big sign with his name on it in front of the joint? Kourtland is owner and main proprietor for Kourtland's Saloon and Hotel."

"Gotcha. How much a room run for?"

"You got a name partner?"

"Sure as hell aint partner."

"Ah, so we got ourselves a character."

The wanderer doesn't say anything, he just stares across the bar at the different assortment of trinkets and things lining the wall. Two great heads once belonging to majestic beasts of these hills. The first has thick, walnut fir with black beetle eyes and short, slightly curved horns. Power and nobility still radiates from the short, squat intelligent head of cow family descendent. The second is a member of the deer family with a giant crown of thin, jagged antlers. A true frontier beauty. Below the grandiose animal skulls are two cryptic firearms, assumedly the killers of the beasts, which are rusting and don't appear fit for firing as their barrels have been filled with lead and their chambers welded shut. An eclectic collection of smaller nick-nacs cover the remaining parts of bare wall along with the bar's collection of cloudy, amber and clear elixirs. A small metal telescope with a foggy lens and a slight green stain to it's finish, ancient pewter flagons chipped around their rims, empty rifle cartridges of every caliber, deer skin powder horns used for muskets and dueling pistols  and many rectangular sheets of paper emblazoned with mugshot like portraits in the centers and reward bounty amounts below their printed names and offenses.

The wanderer's blank stare and absent daydream ends and he flashes back to reality when the barkeeps' hand smacks down on the bar in front of him. Caught by surprise his hand instantly flies to the handle of his hatchet.

"That be Kourtland, speak to him about a room."

"Thank you," the wanderer stands on his feet and turns on his heal to observe his new host. Entering the cozy, warm saloon through thick oak doors strides a proud looking, early middle-aged man with a bushy, neatly trimmed beard and long, flowing black hair streaked with gray running down the center of his back. His onyx eyes glisten with devilish intrigue and cunning intelligence while a barely visible scar runs across the bridge of his slightly crooked nose.

The lean bodied saloon owner rounds the bar without even giving the wanderer the slightest glance. He slowly lifts a bottle to his thin lips and sips a swig of the brown liquid to awaken his body. Turning to his barkeep, the bottle is set down.

"Morning sir," the barkeep nods with the shotgun's butt-pad balanced on his knee.

"And to you Barton."

"Any progress in the plans?"

"I told you damn it, keep it under wraps," they both glance quickly at the wanderer with harsh eyes.

"So partner, you new in town? Don't recall seeing you before. Need a room or something? Some p***y?" Kourtland turns off his glare and gives the wanderer a kind inviting smile that at the same time seams cold and calculating. The gleam in his eye creates a soft exterior that undoubtedly is just a facade for an unfeeling, killer of human beings.

"How about a shave? It won't leave me with my throat cut will it?"

"Ah, a perceptive fellow. But on the contrary, you haven't given me a reason to cut your throat yet," Kourtland chuckles and winks.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Alright partner, take a seat in the corner and Bosko will be right with ya and you'll be all squeaky clean for when you go down on one of our lovely house ladies," the barkeep Barton says as he wipes down a cloudy, crystal mug. "Nothing gets our ladies off more then a baby-smooth face between their legs."

"How about you sell me a room while you're at it, so I can stow my s**t."

"Everyone warms up to Kourtland's. Would you like a double or a single?"

"Do you see two of me?"

"I wasn't sure how much room the rodent 'round your neck needs. I know they can be smelly little b******s."

"Oh well, no. Just a single."

"You're not the only perceptive one my friend. With the shave and single, I'll give you a great discount. How's twenty-five sound?"

"Reasonable enough," the wanderer fingers the exact amount from his pocket and is rewarded with a small brass key. With a final measuring of the multidimensional saloon owner, the wanderer climbs the dry, creaky stairs to the bar's second floor. The etching on the key reads simply 8, which the wanderer matches to it's corresponding door, turns it in the metal lock and enter his temporary haven. Marduk scurries off of his shoulder perch and hops up onto the windowsill to stake out his new room. His beady ferret eyes scan every nook and cranny and once all is clear he emits a squeak of approval.

"Good with you?"

Marduk chirps again and curls up in front of the window.

The wanderer removes the rifle from his back and props it up casually within the room's empty closet. With the weight removed from his tense shoulders, he stands rigidly on his tip toes and stretches big, arms and legs spread eagle. The room momentarily spins, reminding him of his fatigue, causing him to stumble down to his mattress to catch his breath and regain his lost composure.

An environment created by a soft, fat mattress covered by a heavy, down comforter in a toasty warm room smelling of roast meat and woodsmoke functions as a comatose drug for a man who spent the past six months hiking through uninhabited forests sleeping on rocks and pine needles.

Like a warm cotton succubus dragging him into the abyss, the tender sleep surface sucks our wanderer into the deepest of deep hibernations. Marduk chirps in his usual tone of agreement and follows his master's example by burying his face in his fury rump and escaping to a world free of dark gloom and filled with bustling forests where he can chase and eat his fill of robins, finches, mice and moles. Just him and his beloved master. No bullshit.

What cruel world was this where god could allow such a terribly gruesome thing to happen to someone so damn innocent? Why wasn't he the one being punished? If it were his bones that were broken, his blood that was flowing and his face that had been almost ripped from his skull, no complaints would have come to his lips. He would have justified it by saying he deserved it. The booze became too much, his anger took too strong of a hold. He knew his destiny would end dark.

But why, why the f**k were the fates playing their sick game with the only light that ever existed in his life? That glowing beautiful boy was now just a cold, stiff, unmoving corpse without a face and caked in dried blood. He was left with a world absent of stars who's only sun was now burnt out without mercy or explanation. A senseless crime with no face to put it to.

If that face ever came to light, the crime scene here would pale in comparison for the one for him. He'd be sure that the murderer would feel the most extreme limits of human pain. Sturdy metal pliers would rip each child-molesting finger from the killers' dirty hands. A molten hot ice pick would drive slowly through each eyeball while the coward pissed his pants and s**t all over himself as his soft pupils were punctured, popped, sizzled and burst. Once every nerve in his body was wracked with mind consuming pain and he was left deaf, blind, mute and without any limbs, the coward would finally be liberated and sent to his white hot purgatory in the deepest level of hell.

And where was that stupid a*s wife of his? Her own son was lying in a ditch, dead as a doornail, bloodied to a pulp and she was probably home in her own little world worrying about how she'd appear for this public appearance. Would she look more upset if she was bawling her eyes out or if she sighed and fainted? Should she arrive disheveled and unkempt as if in a tizzy or put together and proper as if she were a woman who always kept her composure?

Well she better hurry her a*s up. It was all her damn fault! Stupid goddamn b***h where is she?

Saying his final bit of peace for his baby boy, he pulls a white sheet over the little man's face. A plump warm tear grows fat in the corner of his right eye just as his idiotic bumbling wife arrives on the scene putting on an acting show worthy of a medal. But despite her over the top display of heartache, not a single tear comes to her eyes. He hadn't noticed it at first but now in his mind's eye it was clear as day. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

Arriving at her broken husband's side, the dark gloomy universe takes a momentary twist as if a camera flashed and the next clear frame snapped into the present. A flicker of evil flares in his eyes and the gift of hindsight greats a new, more satisfying outcome.

Now knowing this outcome was completely her fault; executed as a part of her selfish femme fatal plan, her man eating womb which turns horny men into malleable robots, pawns in her sex driven games- he lunges forward with his fingers locking quickly around her heaving neck. His jagged dirty nails puncture the soft, subtle skin of her nape. Gasping breaths puff in his face as a murderous vice-grip sends popping and crunching sounds echoing from her gaping, awestruck mouth.

Just as she dies, frantic hands begin to claw at him along with terrified screams of the witnesses of this new murder. Thrown to the ground, his dumbfounded neighbors, friends, peers and brothers turn to slobbering demons, craving flesh in the light of the ghostly white moon. Their screams of terror and sadness morph to garbles of hunger and sadistic bloodlust.

Before he can get back to his feet and run for the hills, the zombies descend and his flesh is torn from bone as his tendons snap and his muscles deflate. As they feast, he doesn't scream, doesn't cry, doesn't utter a single noise. His heartache and sadness are too severe as his son's body still stains his mind. They just feast until everything fades to black.

The hot smokey room slowly fades back into reality from the black, murky death created in a subconscious dream. The bloodthirsty animals are gone along with his strangled wife and mutilated son. Just an empty room with his only remaining friend and ally perched softly on the windowsill dreaming about bountiful food play. Muffled twangs from an acoustic guitar creep into the silence from the saloon below. As a gentle breeze sneaks in from around the window pane, the wanderer can feel the beaded sweat on his forehead cool and dry in stony droplets.

Sitting up, all the sore muscles from the back of his calves to the tense rigidity in his neck flare and scream in disagreement. It's still daylight outside but the sun has made considerable progress as it begins to set in the west. Upon pure instinct, Marduk awakens and glances to his master expectantly. A soft chirrup asks what's up?

"Stay here. I need a bath and a shave. I'll bring some chow up after."

Marduk chirps again, a little put out, and re-burys his face in his hindquarters for another round of tackling and eating fowl.

Once back downstairs he finds Kourtland and the barkeep Barton still at their posts behind the bar. More patrons are present now as half a dozen grimy civilians suck out of bottles, mugs, jars and shot-glasses on the opposite side of the bar. An elderly, toothless man sits on a barrel in the center of the floor with a ratty guitar across his knees. Broken ancient tunes are strummed out casually while the melody is hummed behind a gummed mouth and gray beard. Other patrons sit at randomly placed tables enjoying the music and munching on plates filled with pulled roast meat, steamed or boiled veggies and what looks like warm baked bread.

Kourtland's perceptive, witty eyes constantly survey every man around him and their steely coldness soon enough falls upon the stiffly walking unnamed wanderer. The way he limps, it looks as if he recently suffered a crippling injury to the legs or back. As the wanderer takes in the drunken men and the partially naked working-women, Kourtland leaves his post to attend to the man.

"Ah my friend, did you doze off and forget about your shave and lay? Bosko still has some hot lather and a sharp razor ready for you. And I'm sure Kayden or Shyla or Ingrid would be more then happy to spread their legs and open their snatches for a brave adventurer such as yourself."

"Let's just start with the shave and a bath," the wanderer nods as he hobbles to the barber's chair.

"Bosko, shave this sad wet dog and tell Kayden to run him a nice hot bath... with all the trimming," Kourtland winks, turns on his heel and heads back to his spot behind the bar. His attitude is still extremely inviting, however, the wanderer still finds that he makes him oddly uneasy. That small, sly twinkle in his ocean-deep eyes seam a sign that he is not to be trusted. Perhaps it's it's all in his head. But perhaps not...

The barber's chair is soft and surprisingly comfortable on it's rotating single leg. Bosko the barber is a short and fat older man with a shiny, shaved face and chrome dome head. His basset hound jowls give him a permanent unhappy expression beneath his pencil-thin mustache. Thick, elastic woven suspenders hold up black cotton slacks under his tremendous girth.

Cue ball loads his hand with a thick lather of warm white shaving cream. As it's smeared on the wanderer's face, the soothing experience almost puts him into another impromptu nap but his ears quickly perk up as a meticulously sharp razor begins to glide gracefully across his cheeks, chin and neck. While the barber moves around him, he catches a quick glance of himself in the mirror and is shocked when he hardly recognizes himself. From a bearded bum looking ragged and useless to a clean cut, surprisingly handsome man with silky smooth skin. Just as the realization hits him, the cunning saloon owner also takes notice.

"You clean up well my boy, I'm sure Kayden will have no problem puffing your pecker. And trust me, she does a damn good job of that," Kourtland laughs jovially and begins to puff on a cigar.

With a final rinse, the wanderer's face is clean and smooth for the first time in as long as he can remember. The Barber Bosko has done a perfect job as the motions and strokes have become second nature to the lifetime haircutter.

"There you are," Bosko sets him free from the barber chair, "and friend, you damn well better better treat Kayden right or you'll find my straight razor aint so steady next time."

"Understood my good man."

The wanderer doesn't notice Kourtland when his head gives a light nod, but it is a sign to the buxom Kayden that it's her turn at the plate. A short, thick but rather athletic brunette-haired girl latches to his arm and walks him into a back room.

"Right this way handsome, you need a bath and some lovin'," her voice is cute and innocent.

As he walks beside her, he can't help but realize the two bouncing jugs strapped to her chest hidden unsuccessfully behind a tissue-thin tank top. Through the transparent material he can clearly make out two tiny, stiff n*****s hopping up and down perkily with each step she takes with her sturdy legs. With the look upon her face, the wanderer realizes this girl can't be a day over twenty and most likely still a teenager. But the sex still oozes from every inch of her despite her obvious youth.

She leads him into a small room who's walls are lined with dainty silk draperies and sweet smelling incense burning. Some sort of aphrodisiac. A sturdy copper basin sits in the center filled with a froth of hot steaming water, such an inviting sight for the dirty and sore wanderer.

"Would you like me to undress you sir?" Kayden asks in her little innocent voice.

"I think I can do that much myself darlin'."

The wanderer unlinks his arm from hers and quickly removes his rank, tattered clothing where it is tossed into the corner in a smelly pile. As he gradually slides his naked body into the steaming tub, the tense muscles in his back, shoulders and legs instantly relax. Caught up so in the warm and comfort, his eyes shut for a moment forgetting the pretty young lady standing before him almost naked and ready to please him in any way.

"Would you allow me to wash your back sir?"

"If that's what they have you do sweetheart. And call me Lars."

"Okay... Lars," upon saying his name, her cute round face lights up at being treated with so much respect. Not a common occurrence for saloon w****s. With sponge in hand and perky tits hanging strategically from her paper thin blouse, the innocent Kayden begins to dab Lars' back with hot, soothing water. Her touch is extremely sensual.

"How old are you darlin'?"

"Why do you ask sir-er-Lars?"

"In the face you look hardy out of the cradle."

"Sweetie, don't worry about it, I'm wise beyond my years," as she gently rubs her soft breasts and hard n*****s across his shoulders, her right hand ventures below the steaming water and caresses playfully between his legs. Having been so long without the touch of a woman, he instantly goes hard as a rock. It's a wonderful feeling.

With her left hand, the thin blouse is pulled away along with her raggedy skirt leaving two completely naked people, one in the tub fully and the second, just her thin arm. Lars closes his eyes as the firm grip from her right hand grows tighter to pleasure him.

"Do you like that Lars?"

"Umm, yes."

The steaming cauldron appears at a boil as Kayden's motions grow swifter and firmer and Lars' heart-rate spikes.

"More daddy?"

"Mhm."

"If you like that you'll love this," without a second thought, Kayden stands over Lars and carefully lowers herself into the tub straddling his waist with her big round b***s hanging right before his eyes. After a quick adjustment, he feels himself enter her as she moans slightly. The tightness is unbelievable.

Lars leans forward and as his lips gently kiss and suck on her moist breasts and tits, he reaches around to her bottom, which is slowly rising and falling, and grips the subtle flesh for harder thrusting. His fingers leave light pink hand indentations where they grasp for friction.

Now a full frothing cauldron, the tub sloshes water over the edges and onto the hardwood floor. Lars breaths in hard, low raspings as Kayden hangs her head back to the ceiling, arches her back in ecstasy and moans a lusty, feminine wail. Lars can't help but notice that this teenage harlot puts even his succubus of a wife to shame in the arts of sexual pleasure. The way her thick, round hips and flat hard belly rise and pulse while her lips form illegible words of pleasure. The way those melon-like breasts ripple with their ice-cutter n*****s and her powerlifter bottom flexes as he rapidly explodes in and out of her. Or the way her crotch screams, swells and drips with carnal satisfaction like the nymphomaniac she is.

As Lars finishes, he can feel his heart racing as he uncaps a load which had been building for months now. Kayden stops her concise motions and looks into Lars's dark oceanic eyes. With both of her hands, she reaches down between her legs to remove her lover's part and finshes herself off with her long, thin fingers. Lars can feel her hips lock and her buttocks and groin clench in his lap as her climax is lustily reached.

"Wow baby, that was my best lay in awhile. Definitely one of the biggest."

"I'm sure you tell all your clients that."

"No, no I mean it. All the patrons here are pencil-dicked drunks. Did you enjoy yourself?"

"Let's just say I'll be sleeping like a baby tonight."

"Well I'm glad I could help you out," Kayden exits the tub and reclothes after a quick drying by a brown bath towel.

"And payment?"

"This one's on me babe," she winks, smiles and goes back to her spot in the saloon to find her next john. Lars breaths a sigh of satisfaction and finishes cleaning his body. Dripping wet, he rises and looks around the room knowing he doesn't want to put his nasty clothes back on. He retrieves the brown towel Kayden used to dry off and wraps it around his waist. A nasty scar runs from his belly button all the way up to between his muscular, tattooed pectoral muscles.

Lars peaks from the door into the even more crowded saloon. Naturally, Kourtland is the first to noticed the cleaned up, freshly fucked Lars.

"You content stranger?"

"I couldn't bother someone to fetch me some fresh clothes could I? I'll pay for their service."

"Yon my boy! Head on down to Farcen's and retrieve our new friend some clothes. I'm sure he'll tip you handsomely," Kourtland orders to the saloon's crowd. A young boy with stupid eyes and a vacant expression nods to the owner and bumbles toward the unrobed Lars.

"I'll fetch ya clothes sir," he looks nervous.

"Thank you son. Some strong jeans with thick socks. And preferably a high quality doublet or tunic. Does Farcen's have cloaks as well?"

"I believe so sir."

"Then one of those as well. And lastly, something to clean my boots and gun. You got that?"

"Yessir."

"How much will that cost?"

"Thirty at least. Perhaps forty or fifty most likely."

Lars turns to his pile of dirty clothing and removes coins to the amount of forty-five. He moves back to the door with the towel still covering him and hands the boy the payment.

"Take this and buy me the best for the value. When you come back I'll give you your payment. Understood?"

"Yessir. Thank ya sir." Yon the simpleton scampers from the saloon with his eyes set forward as if on a life or death mission. Lars walks back to his clothes and un-balls them to assess their worth. The tunic and jeans look rather sad and useless but regardless, he empties all their pockets and submerges them in the still warm water in the copper basin. His supply slings are still intact as they have been crafted by tough, thick leather and bound by straps of rugged rawhide. The things that shall be kept without a doubt are his cowboy hat, his cowhide jacket and those two black, steel-toed engineer boots as they are caked with filth and cleaning them up will be no problem.

By the time Yon returns, his old clothes are busy drying under a four-legged wood stove. The steam and grime can be seen rising from the fabric as it's all baked out. The young simple boy's arms are piled with clothing and other things as his face looks proud and excited.

"Got what you asked for sir. With two left over," he holds out two small coins.

"Keep that son and take this as well," Lars hands him a couple more coins equal to ten currency. Yon's face lights up and he scurries away to either spend or hoard his meager reward.

Lars looks over his new clothes and finds first a nice fresh pair of cotton underpants cut down to the top of his knees. They create a soft, warm cover for his waist and crotch. The jeans the boy received are of a perfect size and look much like the damaged ones did before years of wear and tear and sized to fit. He takes a thick leather belt, something he hasn't had in some time, from the pile of new attire and weaves it through the loops of the pants and pulls them up and over his legs. The hatchet is quickly placed back in its usual spot.

The socks Yon brought him are of wool and provide great warmth inside his boots. As for a tunic, the new blouse is a tan quilted doublet of relatively cheap quality. Lastly, a jet black cloak with deep pockets outside and within is sure to be a great barrier against the cold and the wind.

So with his boots washed and shined, his hat cleaned and creased, and his new clothes on his bathed body; Lars takes up his old rags and heads back into the saloon to listen to some plucking guitar and get a sip of whiskey. He looks like a black messenger of death with his ebony, high-topped boots and onyx cloak and razor sharp killing implement. His clean shaved shave is as stoic and emotionless as ever and his stride, now made easier by the hot water and sex, is long and confident like a man who never has to second guess his decisions. As he perches on a barstool, Kourtland smiles his sly smile and pours the wanderer a shot.

"So unnamed stranger, you do have a name I assume?"

Lars just smirks and downs the fiery liquid in the shot glass continuing his little game.

"What's your secret stranger? You must have some dark scary history. I mean, I gave you a great deal on a room, provided you a shave and a bath and even a free piece of my most prime p***y but yet you won't even give me a name. What horrors have you committed in your past?"

"You don't even want to know," Lars gives Kourtland the saloon owner his little smirk once more with a wink to match and retreats to his empty room and his slumbering woodland creature friend. Fresh shave, fresh wash and a fresh f**k; sleep would be good tonight. Good and heavy and comfortable.