Band

The Darkhorse came through the door of that backhouse that sick, humid night–didn’t know what hit ‘im. Thought it best to try one more time, give it one last run. Oh, that melody had been runnin’ circles in that brain of his for years. Never had the right guns to pull, though. And not the slightest idea what happens to powder when it ages. This night was different; oh how those boots hit those concrete planks. Everyone knew when they saw him, when they heard him talkin’ to the keep. And he’d have that town on their knees before his last run was through. They tried to hide ‘em—the little ones, I mean. But this hunt was ages old. Blood was runnin’ before Grace had even shut her doors for the night. So flip those silly little locks and try to hide in those worn out cellars…..but there ain’t no cellars in hell.

Welcome.