Bowie Knives and Bowler Hats

The men sat around the large table in the dining room of the abandoned mansion. They were thirteen in total, all of them stinking and wasted. They picked at the game meat with their knives and fingers, then wiping them on their filthy rags. Their hats lay on the table beside them like miniature dome monoliths.

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Nobody could explain where the lights had arrived from, it all passed so quickly, but those that had the opportunity to speculate, they said they were something deriving from some alien place, a type of counterfeit prophet sent in one final deception of mankind.

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The Fiend

In that golden glow of early Saturday morning light he stares into her eyes, dark, dark blue like a moody sky, they remind him of that lyric in that Guns n’Roses song, and her narrow face framed by hair yellow as fire. Her milk-white skin still unblemished, no pimples or scars; her nose is in perfect harmony and proportion with the rest of her face, and the two pink rose leaf lips, he imagines they taste of strawberry.

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