Tombstone ★★★★½

Across the prairie, a lone rider approaches. The sun rises behind him, shrouding him in darkness. Black against red.

He rides closer. The sun creeps upward, a flame lapping at the hem of a curtain. The morning's heat makes his shape waver and dance. A man astride a horse at one moment; a beast of a thousand hands at another.

He rides closer. The sun is high now. Staring straight down, accusing him. The only clear signs of his progress are puffs of silver dust kicked up by hooves.

He rides closer. The sun glares, a disappointed parent. The ground bakes. The air hisses. The sky is a blue nothing.

He rides closer. The sun is at your back, the rider cloaked in your shadow. The chime of his spurs sings through the dusk.

Iron flashes in his fist and it coughs. The proud points of his mustache, thick as oak trunks and yards wide, rise slightly. Grinning. Your head opens like a flower.

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