Trent Pyro of This Is My Joystick writes "I take my hat off and wipe the sweat and dirt from my brow. The sun beats down on the bone-dry plains, skewing my view, the horizon rippling with the heat. Around me lie four men, gaping bullet wounds still oozing shiny red. A pack of vultures circles overhead, one swooping down presuming a meal. I draw my revolver and take a shot, downing the hungry bird. I take its feathers; I’ll sell them later, maybe get enough for a gin at the saloon. I take one last glance at one of the bodies, a man dressed different from the rest. It was he who I was saving, supposed to be anyway, that is. The scum got the better of him this time, got the better of me. Can’t win ‘em all. I whistle, and my strong, black beauty of a steed comes careening over a hill."