The Desert

I.

The Man in Rhinestones fled across the desert and The Revelator followed.

The desert was like all deserts; sprawling and empty, a place where death stalked between the breeze. The Man in Rhinestones held a revolver at his side and a permanent sneer etched on his face. He’d been running for hours, days, weeks. Never stopping, not to light a fire or to rest beneath the starry sky. “Ain’t no rest for the wicked,” one might say. The Man in Rhinestones was wicked. A selfish man so enamored with his own vices that there was no room in his heart for anything else.

The dirge of desert flocks sang overhead, moving in liquid-like murmurations against the blue sky. There were no clouds save for a distant storm, stark black with static thunder, full of flashing lightning and wind like the howl of a thousand wolves. That was where The Man in Rhinestones was bound; into the storm where the sand whipped and rain poured and where he might deprive The Revelator of his quarry.

Further way, The Revelator sat upon his starved mare and patted her neck gently. A well-worn holster, patterned with white and crimson crosses was slung around his waist, a gift from a woman he often wrote to, but never returned his missives. The holster was clasped at the center with a large silver buckle, and hanging at his hip rested Five Star, the revolver he swore he’d use to mete out his holy justice upon The Man in Rhinestones.

He couldn’t remember how many outposts, mining camps, or one-horse towns he’d been through asking after him. The number was countless, and the answer from every barkeep, cowpoke, gambling hall and whore had the same refrain:

“Across the desert.”

And so, as the wicked and sinful had done in droves before him, he packed his mare and set off across the lonely, oppressive expanse.

II.

The Man in Rhinestones was headed for a distant place where the sea crashed against cliffs and it was there where he’d finally be free. He’d run south towards the borderlands where lonely fires drifted across the sands, towers of smoke rising up to kiss the clouds and water the angels’ eyes. That was the plan: Freedom and by any means necessary.

This was the land of barbed wire and tumbleweeds. The Man in Rhinestones knew that all too well; a doomed place that nary bootmark nor fingerprint should ever touch. Ahead, there were two mesas that rose from the earth like two great monoliths, like twin effigies to a dead god only ever worshiped in hushed tones and whispered words. The Man in Rhinestones didn’t know nothin’ ‘bout that. There wasn’t a god in the sky worth worshiping, as far as he knew, and none on the earth either.

Maybe that was why The Revelator was on his tail, he thought.

Maybe it was nothing more than a difference in opinion.

III.

The Revelator was loath to chaw tobacco, but needed more than prayers to keep his mind in motion as he spit a murky brown arc that swirled into the changing winds and shifting sands. His restless mind always turning back to their last showdown, The Man in Rhinestones clipping his horns before fleeing into the night in a cloud of dust and haze of gunfire.

Still though, he prayed and reckoned and prayed again that this wasn’t about revenge, but about justice being served in a land where it seemed to matter so little. The Revelator was rushed out of his thoughts and back to the present as his mare rose to a height greater than he’d ever seen and busted him off into the sand.

As The Revelator got to his feet, dusting off his denims and squinting through the kicked up dust devil, he realized his mare gone and he had lost all sense of direction in the storm. He clutched at the cross that dangled around his neck, just inside his work shirt. In a voice audible only to him and his God, he prayed.

“My Guide, who levels the path before me, and leads me in the way of peace, go before me into the unknown way, and illuminate the darkness.”

He spit another disgusting brown arc of tobacco into the air and watched the winds carry it off to purgatory, and he waited. He waited because he believed in the words he’d spoken and knew they would come to fruition with patience. After a few moments, the winds slowed enough for the sands to return to the surface and out of the dust the old mare trotted dutifully back.

The Revelator smiled grimly as he swung a leg up over the old girl and with his faith galvanized, continued across the desert.

IV.

As the storm gave way to new light, The Man in Rhinestones coughed a bloody phlegm and wiped at his mouth before reaching into his waistcoat to pull out one of his remedies; a corked vial of white powder that sparkled when held to the sun. The Man in Rhinestones put the vial against his nose, one long snort sending it into his nostrils and then towards his brain, skitter scattering through synapses until his eyes folded to the backs of their lids and his mouth parted in pleasure and his feet began to walk on their own accord.

It wasn’t long until The Man in Rhinestones reached a valley of buttes and mesas just like the two from before. They scraped the sky and reduced the sun to mere shadow and it was there in the darkness that The Man in Rhinestones stalked on unsteady feet. He staggered with one hand against the rockface, trying to catch his breath even as his breath ran on without him. He paused there and leaned against the rocks before he noticed two letters carved into the stone.

V V

“Shit,” He muttered in a hushed voice even as he began to move in frenzy. “Goddammit!”

Accursed. Doomed. All tales true of scalped heads and quartered limbs, bodies strung from the last remaining trees and their guts all a-dangle like garland. The Man in Rhinestones had heard those stories. Warnings. Cautionary tales. Now, he was in the thick of something far worse than any Revelator and he hunched there on his hinds, moving slow beneath the shadows for fear of unseen eyes peering from some unknown place.

The desert was full of half-men and horrors; cultists, cannibals, cutthroats. Men who’d stumbled into that barren place and sold their soul for a sixpence. Men who’d, by all accounts, allowed themselves to reduce to their most feral instincts, their most savage desires. Those two twin V’s were an indication that The Man in Rhinestones was in one of their snakebit territories.

This was not a place of honor. This was a place of damnation. The vultures circled overhead.

V.

As The Revelator coursed westward, they began seeing slight shifts in the landscape. More small rock outcroppings poked out among the sand, with the rollicking dunes behind them. Cacti stretched toward the heavens, hoping to touch God themselves. He believed then he’d never seen a more devout living being in his life than the humble cactus.

But again, his thoughts soon drifted like the sands back toward The Man in Rhinestones. He dreamt the satisfaction of allowing him a duel, walking out their ten paces, drawing Five Star quicker than he’d ever seen someone pull a revolver and planting that blue whistler right between The Man in Rhinestones’ accursed eyes.

He snapped awake before the bullet struck. The Revelator found himself swaying in the mare’s saddle, head hanging low, belly rumbling something fierce from pangs that couldn’t be satiated. He woke to the full moon accompanied by the howls and howls as a pack of wolves celebrated their catch. The mare’s trot briefly turned into a canter, but her age and empty stomach belied her adrenaline rush and soon found herself struggling. The Revelator urged her on before dozing off in the saddle once more.

VI.

“One day, there’ll be a culling. Man, woman, child, and all. A great fire will sweep the land and burn it clean.”

The Man in Rhinestones had heard those words from a preacher in a backwater town years prior. He knew then that the preacher had never been out in the badlands. If he had, he’d have already known the culling was already there, but it weren’t no great fire. It was man, same as it ever was; from the first germ of life set adrift to there and then upright on both legs, it was always man.

Even so, the preacher’s words echoed like thunder in The Man in Rhinestones’ head as he crouched behind a fallen boulder. He had seen all he needed to see and knew all he needed to know, and yet standing resplendent on the ridge was something new to plague his thoughts until his dying days. Three antlered silhouettes atop tar-black steeds, each dressed in tattertorn rags that twisted with the wind. They sat on their horses unmoving, the man in the middle with a rifle balanced against his shoulder while the others readied their bows.

The Man in Rhinestones felt his breath stutter, unsure if he’d been spotted amongst the rocks. He clutched his pistol against his chest with shaking hands. When he peeked over the boulder again, a rattling drove of arrows glided headlong towards him, pursued in kind by the three antlered riders.

He shouted, ducking back down behind the boulder, arrows pinging off the rockface. A rifle shot rang out before a smoking bullet ricocheted off the ground just a few feet away. The Man in Rhinestones readied his pistol and stood just as one of the riders pulled ahead of the others. With the hammer pulled back, he pressed the trigger and sent a bullet through the man’s forehead, watching as he fell sideways from his bucking horse.

Before he could aim a second shot, a second rider came forth brandishing a wooden club. The Man in Rhinestones cursed and spewed, fumbling with his gun, but it was too late. His eyes went wide just as the horseman rode by, bashing the club against The Man in Rhinestones’ head.

VII.

The Revelator’s mare succumbed to exhaustion, dying some miles back. He continued on foot, steadfast in his righteous pursuit of justice. The holy man’s faith had remained strong, but his body had begun breaking down across the desert. He had forsaken his own health in this unyielding and fruitless hunt, but believed God commanded him to continue.

One evening, ragged of breath, the soles of his boots worn thin, he found himself descending into a canyon, the path forking in two As The Revelator stroked his chin, grimacing at the patchy beard that refused to fill in, he pondered his next move.

“Which way would The Man in Rhinestones go?”

He studied the rock edifice in the fork before him and gripped Five Star until his knuckles turned white. He took a deep breath to calm his nerves and crossed his chest. He blinked rapidly, hoping what he’d seen was nothing more than a mirage, the pangs of pleasure torturing his mind.

Unsteady, The Revelator dragged a lame leg as he reached the edifice and placed his hand upon the carved symbols, verifying they were as real as the righteousness of his own cause. He shook his head and sighed. There comes a time in every man’s life where he questions the reality and truth of everything he has fought for. A line is stepped over and perspective suddenly changes like the desert winds.

“Woe to the vanquished,” he grimly whispered and lowered his head. He began limping to the left, reckoning it’s where his quarry would have fled. As he slowly descended, the path narrowing, doubt seared at the edges of his mind.

He never heard the footfalls or saw the terrifying silhouette of antlers against the moon. The hunter, consumed by his prey, didn’t feel the net until it was too late. He fought, twisted and struggled, but it was no use. He was pulled off his feet and crashed to the earth.

The Revelator felt his body being dragged down the canyon, whispering voices, the mention of another, but the side of his head found an outcropping and the stars went black.

He dreamt of walking out his ten paces.

VIII.

When The Man in Rhinestones woke, he wasn’t sure how long he’d been unconscious. The settled sun had painted an evening redness on the western horizon and his hands were shackled at the wrists.. A small fire burned nearby and, as he gathered his wits about his waking eyes, he discovered he was not alone.

Chained next to him, head tilted downward with a trickle of drool hanging from his chapped lips and along his prickled chin, was The Revelator. The Man in Rhinestones kicked at the dirt in some attempt at creating distance, a violent reaction all wide-eyed and frothing before he realized there was nowhere to go and no distance to create; they were bound together just as they’d always been.

Nearby, there were corpses strewn about the ground. Blood stained the sand and two antlered helms sat unused atop a crooked wooden table. A yard away, another fire burned and two men gathered there, one of Asian descent with the visage of a great lizard etched into the skin of his back and the other a slackjawed Caucasian with hair falling in a rudimentary mane like that of a horse.

The Man in Rhinestones sneered as The Revelator began to stir, speaking in a whisper so as to not alert their captors.

“Lookin’ like you caught up at last, Rev,” He said. “Funny how fate works itself out, ain’t it?”

The Revelator’s eyes lolled in their sockets as he tried to focus. The throbbing in his skull hadn't subsided and he could feel the sticky coagulation of blood matted through his hair.

He immediately tried to reach for Five Star but found his hands bound and the revolver gone. He scoffed and spit a copper mess into the dirt beside him.

“You.”

The Revelator wanted to fight against his bonds, his mind was willing but the strength had been sapped, tapped like a network of maples somewhere in the snowy hinterland to the north.

“Have I been chasing the wrong demon this entire time?”

“Aint got the foggiest ‘bout no demons,” The Man in Rhinestones said. “This here’s the work of man, same as it ever was. Though, ‘spite whatever theological differations we might be havin’, I reckon you’d agree when I say we’re in a fuckin’ pickle, ain’t we?”

The Man in Rhinestones head rolled back, a laughter percolating in his throat, shaking his head from side to side.

“Go on and tell me, Rev,” He said. “What’chu know ‘bout The Vae Victis Tabernacle?”

The Revelator sighed deeply. “I’ve heard they worship Satan, or his Armies, or something much worse, but you know how these frontier horror stories go.”

The Man in Rhinestones nodded along.

“No quarter for their captives,” The Revelator continued. “Heard tell they got a network of caves through these canyons where they send folk to slave away mining for gold. An’ they’ll mutilate ya something fierce, then burn ya on a pyre while they dance ‘round it wearin’ those goddamned helms...”

The Revelator paused. “...And I think I gotta lay aside this animosity for if we’re gonna fix a way outta this.”

“Reckon you might,” The Man in Rhinestones said. “Looks to be just two of ‘em. For now, anyway. Ain’t gonna fix jack shit whiles they got us all chained up, though.”

A ponderous expression crossed The Man in Rhinestones’ face, biting at his lower lip before he looked over towards The Revelator.

“You oughta raise a racket,” He said. “Get their attention. Get ‘em over here. Soon as they unlatch us, we start fightin’ ‘em like a couple fuckin’ demons ourselves. You still know how to fight like that, don’tcha?”

A slow grin curled at the edges of The Man in Rhinestones lips.

The Revelator shook his head and after a moment, returned the smile.

In a deep, sweet baritone, The Revelator sang:

“Amazing grace! How sweet the sound…” Slack-Jaw arrived first, peering in as The Revelator continued to sing, the Man in Rhinestones joining. Soon after The Inked Man arrived.

“Enough,” The Inked Man spoke with a bastard tongue. “Gather them. It’s time to move camp. The Queen is expecting our arrival.”

The Queen. The Man in Rhinestones had heard tale of The Queen; a frigid and taciturn lady whose cruelty knew no bounds. The Inked Man turned away as Slack-Jaw approached with a key in one hand and a knife in the other. He undid The Revelator’s chains first, but left his hands shackled behind his back. When The Man in Rhinestones’ chains came free, he rose to his feet and said to Slack-Jaw, “Well, reckon you just made a mistake, pardner.”

In one swift motion, The Man in Rhinestones reared back his head and butted Slack-Jaw as hard as he could. Slack-Jaw stumbled back, knife and key clattering across the ground. The Man in Rhinestones charged headlong towards Slack-Jaw, tackling him to the ground.

“Get the key!” He shouted. “C’mon, Rev! Don’t you dilly-dally!”

The Revelator scrambled on all fours, clutching the key in a cloud of dust. His hands fumbled as they expeditiously tried to tumble the lock. He laughed deliriously as it did, hands free, and then his feet. Before the Inked Man could react to get back into the fray, The Revelator had unlocked the chains at The Man in Rhinestones’ feet, and handed him the to finish it.

“HEY!” The Inked Man shouted, but it was too late. The Revelator surged forward and spread The Inked Man backward into the carved wall, a pained cry rising with the air escaping his lungs.

Unbound, The Man in Rhinestones took off towards the second fire, pursued by Slack-Jaw. His eyes scanned the campsite before they saw two pistols, The Five Star and his own Intense Shot laying atop a crate. The Man in Rhinestones dove for them, grabbing both in one motion before rolling onto his back. Slack-Jaw’s eyes went wide as two bullets shot from either gun, lodging themselves in his mulleted crown.

Blood sprayed in crimson ruin as Slack-Jaw fell facedown in the dirt. The Man in Rhinestones wasted no time, racing back towards where he’d left The Revelator and The Inked Man. When he arrived, they were wrestling on the ground, The Inked Man wielding his recently deceased compatriots’ knife in the air as The Revelator scrambled back on his hinds.

“Rev! Catch!”

The Man in Rhinestones tossed Five Star through the air towards The Revelator. He swiftly caught Five Star, firing it through the back of The Inked Man, who fell on top of The Man in Rhinestones as a heap, the bowie knife nearly missing his skull. Both assailants were dead, but The Revelator had holy justice to carry out.

“On your feet. Ten paces and draw. Now.”

The Man in Rhinestones sneered, wiping blood from his bejeweled waistcoast. Gripping his gun in his right hand, he stared across the few meager feet towards The Revelator.

“C’mon now,” He said. “You still wanna do this? After all of that? Alright then…”

The Man in Rhinestones turned almost dutifully before stepping forward in ten paces. Behind him, The Revelator mirrored the same motion. Ten steps, ten seconds, nothing more, and yet it felt like an infinity. When the final step was taken by either man, they both turned at once with their respective pistols drawn, fingers balanced on their triggers, and without any sort of hesitance, the shots rang ou–

IX.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

There were three knocks on the door and Daytona Diamonds sat up gasping from the couch. His eyes blinked several times as he tried to gather his wits and bearings, looking around to find himself in The Whorehouse locker room. His eyes scanned the room in confusion before they settled on the door where Don Winters peeked in from the hallway.

“‘Tona!” Winters shouted. “Wake up! Match’s in ten!”

“Shit, fuck, alright,” Daytona yawned, wiping the sleep from his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet. “Goddang… Had the weirdest fuckin’ dream…”

The Rhinestone Cowboy approached The Revelator from across the room on slow legs, still working the sleep from his bones as he pushed through the doorway and out into the hall. As he walked next to Winters’, one hand reached out to settle on The Revelator’s shoulder.

“C’mon then, Donny” Daytona said. “Woe to the vanquished, ain’t it? Reckon we oughta go do some vanquishin’.”

And just like that, The Cowboys for Christ strode off down the arena’s halls.