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|Bad Craziness. (standard:horror, 2399 words)|
|Author: Jack Henry||Added: Sep 24 2002||Views/Reads: 1952/1328||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|The tale of a desperate man on the run who ends up in a small town in the middle of the desert. A western.|
Bad Craziness. “Where're you goin' Tex.” Said the town sheriff as he firmly held his shotgun in a threatening manner. “You ain't leavin' Hope just yet.” They were out on the Main Road, just twenty yards from the Town Square where the townspeople frolicked and danced around a bon fire raised in the name of evil. They were half naked and covered in some kind of strange oil as they chanted evil verses from the Book of the Dead that lay at the foot of the fire. The sheriff and Tex Banderson stood just outside the House of Ill Repute at the end of town, which opened into the endless desert all around them. The horses in the stables lay dead, their throats cut during the sacrificing ritual, eliminating any possible means of escape for Tex, who just happened to be riding through when all of this bad craziness began. What a bad, God awful punishing day. It happened less then two hours ago, when Tex almost rode his dying mule out of the damning desert and into the seemingly quiet oasis of Hope, Texas. For Tex, it seemed that it was all over after the third mirage, but once he saw the looming buildings less than a mile away from where he was, he felt that he had been saved by the hand of God. Tex forced his mule into a pathetic gallop, but it died on him not too long after, throwing him off and landing his face into a cactus. His face was pierced by what seemed like a thousand needles, sending a flurry of pain through his head. He laid like that for five minutes before a dirty man on a horse saved him. Well. . .first it stepped on his hand, utterly crushing it. Tex screamed for a minute before passing out. He woke up in a strange room above the saloon. The smell of perspiration was the first sign and the second was his entrance into this town. He remembered this much as he passed in and out of consciousness while being dragged from the back of the dirty man's horse. When his head bumped over a large rock, he saw the building he was entering and the building across the way: the hotel. Of course the hotel wasn't good enough for Tex; it had to be a dark smelly room above the noise and music below in the saloon. He immediately got up from the floor where he had been dumped and walked around the room, thinking of how to escape. He knew that for some reason he wasn't being saved, or welcomed here in this little town. To make matters worse, this town lay in the middle of the desert, or the middle of nowhere to be more specific, and that meant painless escape was impossible. Tex reached into his pocket and pulled out a cigar. He popped it into his mouth and walked up to the window, feeling in his other pocket for his last match as he looked out onto the Main Road below him. What he saw horrified him to the point of vomiting. He puked in the corner of the room, ironically where his duster coat had been dumped along with his bag. He then ignored his personal belongings and looked out the window again, and to the madness on the road. He saw people crawling about, raising their heads to the sky and back to the ground agai;, their impossibly long tongues slobbering around their desert beaten faces. Children did the same, although in a more infantile manner. Entire families, it seemed, were doing it as well. This was happening all over town, he could see when he looked hard enough. Then he saw a single man wade through it all, as if he were controlling it. He wore a large hat and a duster coat. Inside the coat, Tex gathered, was a shotgun. His own cigar bobbed up and down on his lip as he smiled and chuckled with the packs of wild humans. He then looked up to Tex's window, seeing Tex. Then he smiled. Tex sat down below the window, grabbing his head in fear. “What have I gotten myself into?” he thought as he looked back to a week ago, when he had robbed a bank twenty miles away, and shot two Marshall's that were chasing him down near the horse stable. He was a wanted man on the run (robbin' a bank was one thing. . .but killin' a Marshall?), and it seemed there was nowhere left to run. Click here to read the rest of this story (170 more lines)
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