Lightning cracked the night sky, bats soared from the belfry of the great manor on the hill. Wolves howled along with the thunder. Ominous storm clouds clung to the isolated manor, a group of five riders galloped towards it. The notorious Grimes gang were the only posse willing to take on the bounty, dead or alive, just the way they liked it. This job would change everything with such a high price.

Bounty was a killer, speculation was he kidnapped at least thirteen of the townsfolk, never to be seen again. Real old feller, lotta wrinkles, pale dead eyes, sharp teeth, but deceptively handsome and suave. All the supplies were gathered, robbed a grocer of all his garlic, boosted some holy water and crosses from the chapel, pulled a few railroad spikes, hope nobody is using those tracks.

Silver bullets for the gang's six shooters, although the leader Gus, protested that was for werewolves, not blood suckers. He was overruled. Gang dismounted to approach quietly on foot. Gus's right hand man, Percival, a proper British fella who was the brains of the operation went over the plan one last time.

"Split up and search room by room. Keep your lanterns lit, stay out of the shadows. The garlic around your necks and the crosses around your waists should keep any foul creature within striking distance. Do not hesitate to strike, do not let the blood sucker seduce you.

Do not underestimate this creature. They can hypnotize you, seduce you, offer you vast riches in exchange for obedience. Do not listen to his lies should he tell them. Plunge the stake into his heart, get paid. Easy enough."

The gang put their fists in and pumped themselves up. They were gonna be rich. Gus led the charge through the iron front gates, Selina blew the front door open with her double barreled shotgun. Splitting up went out the window as they entered the grand hall.

An endless red carpet lined with torches made from human skulls led to the foot of a massive throne made of human remains. A pale, slender man sat with his legs crossed, cape draped over him, drinking deeply from a golden goblet.

"Vasn't expecting company zis evening." An ethereal voice called out, the voice reverberating in the gang's skulls. They opened fire, sending round after round downrange. Gunsmoke filled the hall, bullets whizzed and ricocheted through the haze. A chilling cold swept across the gang members, the hall fell silent. The smoke parted, the slender man unfurled his cape, dropping the bullets.

"I believe zes are yours. Who are you people?" He asked.

Percival kept good to his word, he lunged at the man. Percy was a lover, not a fighter. Two sharp fangs clamped around his neck, using him as a meat shield, a cloudy smoke filled Percival's pupils. The slender man used his sharp fingernails to cut the garlic and cross from Percy's body. "Zes trinkets vill do nothing for you. I have gotten rid of that veakness. Thank you for dinner. You may leave now."

The gang reloaded. Meat shield or not they had to keep shooting, the next volley tore Percival to shreds, missed the man entirely, another cold mist, he was behind Selina now. He licked her neck sensuously. "You vill do. Quite beautiful. Kill zem, then you shall be mine."

Selina blew off Stan and John's heads, her hands shaking the entire time, eyes wide with fear. Blood spurted from piercing fangs, the man enveloped Selina with his cape, spinning her like a ballroom dancer. He locked eyes with Gus. Gus had one last shot, he threw the glass bottle of holy water at the man, hit him dead center, flames engulfed the dancers.

Gus rushed into the inferno clutching his railroad spike. With all his might he drove it deep into the man's chest, pinning him to the wall. A splash of blood erupted from the man's mouth, a sinister sneer crossed his face. "You have not von. My children are still hungry."

The howl of a wolf, the putrid smell of rotten breath, the slashing of claws on his shoulder, and the clamp of jagged teeth the last things Gus experienced on the dusty trail all cowboys ride.

Smoke danced with piano notes in the dim, dingy saloon, a perfect place to plan a job. Gerald Declan kicked his feet up on the rickety wooden table, lighting up a cigar. His left hand gal Sadie brought him and his right hand man, Salem another round of whiskey while they talked shop.

Gerald went over the plan again. "Real simple stagecoach heist, done it a million times. Cargo is rations for an army outpost, we're gonna steal those and give em to the indians in exchange for them helping us ambush the train that runs through their valley.

I approach the driver and gunman on foot, they'll trust me due to my reputation. I'll weave some story about an ambush up ahead, take em on a little detour to the real ambush. Once they're boxed in I'll pop em both. You two watch my ass. Strip em down, put on their uniforms, ride the hell out of there. Easy as pie." Gerald smiled, a voluminous puff of smoke emanated from his lips.

Sadie chuckled. "Must be nice being seen as the hero after all the shit you've pulled."

Gerald took a gulp of whiskey "I still maintain my image. Heroic gunslinger that always shoots the bad guy dead at high noon, all in the name of frontier justice. What a crock of shit. Ain't no fucking justice out here."

Salem raised his glass. "Boss sees the big picture. All these jobs string together, play our cards right, we'll have this whole county under our thumbs. Soon enough, whole damn state. Little later on, whole damn country. Lotta sheep in this country willing to vote for the wolf wearing their clothes."

"Damn it's gonna be fun when we're sitting at the top, once we get political power we can really get away with some good scores. White collar crime, that's where it's at. If you write the dictionary you can define justice however you want."

The three clinked their glasses together, another empire being built in a bar, like the old saying goes, if you love what you do you never work a day in your life.

The honor of the Holy Order of St. Winchester hung in the balance on the desolate plains, their shining light becoming clouded with thick coal smoke. No longer did the townsfolk worship their ballistic lords, they worshiped the belching locomotives with their shattering whistles and roaring wheels. Bandits ran the rails, using pagan magic to shield their transports.

Cardinal Black prayed over his gunmetal grey six-shooters and bandolier. A thin slit of moonlight illuminated the crude altar of the field chapel. The Cardinal prayed upon his rosary of bullets, imbuing them with enough force to pierce the heathen's shields. To destroy their infernal locomotives. He loaded the chambers slowly, methodically, carefully. A kiss on the barrels before a dip in holy water.

Cardinal Black holstered his holy irons, he strode with haste into the center of camp, it was almost time. He gathered his flock, they knelt before him, he blessed his posse.

"Now is the time we strike, my sons and daughters of the lord! These heathens threaten our way of life with their manifest destiny! This land is our land, and forever shall be! While the lord may favor us he cannot protect us, we shall all not return from tonight but you shall live forever on the glorious plains of heaven! To arms!"

Cardinal Black shepherded his platoon into the trees to lay in wait for the beast. Rumbling shook the valley, roaring wheels ground on tracks, black smoke blotted out the moon. Cardinal Black liked fighting in the dark. The platoon readied their weapons. Many said their final prayers.

Brimstone bullets flew from armored gattling guns atop the locomotive, the heathens were ready, but out of position, train can only follow the tracks. Piercing bolts of holy lightning cracked from six shooters, shattering the pagan shield. Divine justice delivered swiftly to the gunners. Cardinal Black leapt onto the train, quickly reloading as he shimmied down the side, smashing a window for an entrance.

He pushed towards the front, irons akimbo. The cramped hallway an ideal shooting gallery, heads popped as Black advanced to what he sought to steal being held in the cargo car, the dead sea shotgun, the weapon of prophecy. Black collected himself as the fight raged atop the train, a quick prayer before storming the car. Two guards, not a problem, two fans of the hammer relieved them of their lives.

Black opened the lead box, it glowed when opened. A gleaming silver shotgun seemed to hum with a heavenly voice. Black snatched it quickly, a perfect fit in his hands. The rack of the shotgun reverberated through Black's body, white feathered wings burst from his back. Time to win back the west.

I see gay cowboy and all I can think of is Brokeback Mountain.