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To God

The town was small, the air, dry. They say one man took an entire bank. Charles, the town's butcher pants with sweat beads rolling over the dirt on his forehead. The Sheriff's eyes pierce the dirt, the sky, the houses along the arid weather. Where is he? A lone man comes across the street with a booming voice dragging a body. Sheriff.  If you want this man to have proper burial and save your own skins, it's best to leave. Bandana across a stranger's face. This is my town. Sheriff, with all due respect, it's not. The Sheriff walks off. Stops 20 paces in front the stranger. Are you a superstitious man? Why haven't you shot? The stranger's eyes glisten a red tinge. Are you afraid? 6 shots crack from his revolver. The Sheriff holster's his gun. The stranger hits the ground. The Sheriff walks over, kicks over the stranger and bends over him. The Sheriff looks around, no bullet wounds. He sees red pupils in the stranger's eyes. Half breeds like you need to know their place. The stranger grabs the Sheriff's throat. A tattoo on the stranger's palm burns the sheriff's skin. And the devil like you needs to go back.

10 demons, 4 burned houses, and 10 minutes later.

The stranger stands over the Sheriff, shirtless with tattoos, symbols across his arms, back, chest. What are you going to do halfling? Nothing. They'll come for me. The stranger back down the road.

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