Nathaniel lets out an exhausted sigh of relief, finally reaching the borders of Porttown 03. A solid concrete gate awaiting all visitors sits before them, as if a window to the limestone houses with brilliant potash-white hues comfortably nested aside the broad main street of rich burgundy.
Perhaps it is Mediterranean optimism incarnate that drives one to live in visual luxury, despite these dark days of our lord.

“My paws can’t stand such strenuous walking for much longer.”

Kirk lets out a sarcastic huff, the little runt couldn’t handle the laborious task of walking a mere 50 miles. Certainly not the most convincing image of a guerrilla fighter.

“Well get used to it, house cat; there’s gonna be a whole lot more of that.”

A series of distant hollow “bangs,” upset the travelers’ moment of discordant relief. Powder arms, some sort of infantry reciprocator. A 13mm no doubt, no, two. Nebuchadnezzar Mk.4s self-ejectors!

“Behind that--”

Nathaniel had taken refuge behind the pillar long before the old wolf could draw his weapon, let alone finish his command. It was true: a cat’s cowardice is only matched by his own ego. They would call it “cunning,” no doubt.
This whole situation was some kind of anachronistic nightmare. No sane being, northern or otherwise, uses such antiquated technology any longer.

“Was it the vets, had they caught onto his plan?”

His thoughts were shortly dismissed by one bombastic figure, a lone cry of twisted joy pierces through the cacophony of automatic gunfire.

“My be-hind’s worth millions, boys, show what them lawman spines’re made of!”

Indeed, it was Eli with his guns pointed skyward, hollowing the contents of their chambers upon god’s sanctuary itself; it was a one-man riot.
The wide, intrepid grin; the overzealous confrontation of authority by powder, slug and steel; his trademark howls of pure, thrill-seeking joy--it was unmistakably The fool, tarot card number 0.

“Oh well howdy, old man!”

Kirk rolls his eyes, disapproving of his antics. Suddenly, a distorted voice; it was a megaphone, held by none other than this town’s sheriff.

“Step foward: we hear, that you are a good man.”


“You cannot be bought, despite what also can’t.
You are true to what you say, despite what it is.
You say your opinion, despite whose it is.
You are brave, despite against us.
You are wise, despite to whom.
You serve others, despite those you do.
You are a good friend, a good man,
of the good people, of the good people alone.”

“Hear our decree: we know:
You are guilty.”

“-This is why we sentence you, to fire and deathly brimstone.”

“-But in consideration of your merits, your virtue, your good,
We shall put you in front of a good wall
shoot you with a good bullet
cast from from a good gun, and
bury you with a good shovel...”


-in our good earth.”

-to be continued.