The shadows swirled in smoky tendrils in the stables as Dead Bowie walked forth. Sweat worked down his cheeks in beads, smearing his eye shadow and foundation. Dust and debris played about in icy, blue moonlight which bled from a small, broken window.
Dead Bowie stopped in the shift of moonlight and peered around him. Mutated spider spun massive webs and stared at him with filmy-grays eyes. . His knees were knocking beneath him. Each and every atom in his body wanted him to run out into the night, to scream. The doors swung shut with a gust of wind and he knew that was no longer an option.
There was a snort in the distance; where the darkness was so pungent that it was almost tangible. The moon past behind a storm cloud and stole Dead Bowie’s light.
“You wanted to see me, Bad Horse?” The silence was aching in his ear.
His cowboys appeared from the shadows, humming his theme in a grin, dirge like key. They all wore handlebar mustaches and big Stetsons. Two of them went to either side of him and the third stood at his back, humming the tune in his ear.
“What’s this about, Bad Horse?” He tried to sound calm and collected, but sounded more like a frightened child.
“Bad Horse. Bad Horse. The Thoroughbred of Sin.”
“ You’ve lined your pocket. Pinched the till and soon, you’ll be done in.” Bad Horse’s sang slow and somber, gripping Dead Bowie by the arms and marching him forward. He dragged his heels and wrested wildly.
“No. No! It isn’t true! I would never! I swear!” He screamed on and on as the darkness enveloped him. The death whinny boomed like thunder and the ground shook. Dead Bowie screamed and howled and then made noise no more. All that remained with the shivering silence and a lonely, loathsome clip-clop.
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