Welcome to Literary Decay.

Author notes: "I was still half-drunk on the open plains when I wrote this—a weird western that takes place in the country I'm from, with my own touch of religious horror folded into the dust."

I ain't a good man, but that don't mean I like doing bad things. Not everyone is afforded the choice. Not truly, anyhow, but I've accepted that one day I'll be judged for what I've done. What I do.

It's how I've found myself huddled on the ground near some boy named Mitchell who's convinced he's a man just because he don't live at home no more. But the boy's so embarrassed by his lack of whiskers, he covers his face with a bandana all the time, like he's playing bandit.

"It's colder out here than I thought," Mitchell says, poking the fire. The plains tend to trick you. Hardly any cover out in these parts—makes any breeze feel ten times colder than it has a right to.

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