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Sheriff

 
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Guns and Coffee

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It was filler, nothing more. Entertainment for the brutish savages that though once may have lurked in cigar lounges and chatted up in round tables or freemasonry about life and its seemingly endless constraints, now sharpened spears or forged ammunition for a raid the next day or valiant defense from it. While it was filler the evening was entertainment all the same. Even in the desolate Wastes sapient life clung to entertainment and light-hearted events with a the vice grip of a body struck heavily with rigor mortis, ironically for dear life instead of the lack thereof.

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Satan and His Pilgrims - 7

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Ten years ago...

 

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Acendant - 6

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Vices - 5

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Stood Up - 4

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A Man and His Hat

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Lovers come and go. Friends are a scarce resource in a desolate world. But hats? Well, a man will only have one hat that fits him just right throughout his adult life and gives others a symbol of himself to come to know and respect, or fear if the circumstance calls for it. I was glad to have such a hat but today I've lost that one hat and with it a memory to never be regained. Something far more important than the hat that few in this world know of or have ever seen.

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Marionette - 3

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Counting Coup - 2

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Mister Sandman

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This is like a dream, really. My senses are clouded in one regard since my return and not even this old Sheriff's eye can discern what makes such reaction swell in others.

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Putting His Foot in the Grave - 1

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The raiders were nothing to the man as he tore through their ranks, the crude weaponry they held finding precious little to harm on the man. He seemed to always be clad in armor fit for a tank, as Driftstorm liked to tease. Blades scraped at the plating of his carapace, showing them that the best they could do was rivet the surface, or scratch through the already fading, pee green paint job.

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La Giustifica

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No excuses. I have done wrong, no good. Enforcer work has been the only constant and for that, I am thankful. For that, I am guilty of. Soon I will return to them, the Saints, not one justification curling from my tongue. I wronged a few, acted as if a child. Paid dearly for it. Several more scars line my abdomen this time, and none of them bring pleasant memories to the mind like the one lining an old tattoo on my shoulder.

 

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by Dr. Radut