"If there ever was a bloody place that needs some cheer, its Utah." Gordon spoke with vibrancy, the only present on the street, the kind of vacant street that displayed the more puritan elements of the nameless town Jaime released them into.
"If you guys are interested, there are several ghost towns in the a twenty mile radius of here including one called Death Canyon." Mali words burst from her as she attempted to sway the rest with her disposition.
"You do realize this has all the makings of a treacherous, direct-to-video horror release, don't you? I think the only mystery would be the order we're killed, since none of us are exactly pure." Joe's grin penetrated Parker, forcing him to stare at his own feet rather than recognize his own humanity.
"Speak for yerself mate."
"Well, what's yer mighty definition of pure?"
"Vaginal intercourse, is what I think he's searching for" Casey interjected while joe fumbled for the appropriate terminology.
"Yeah that." A fatuous sense of insecurity pervaded, forcing Joe to reach for his new found blanket: cigarettes. An unfortunate habit he picked up at burning man, American Spirit carried him through much of the process, providing substitution for his inability to cope. After dropping several, he managed to get one out, but it didn't matter at that point. The rest had moved on and Joe felt behind yet again.
".............broader definition to these matters. Some of us more deviant folks appreciate matters outside the norm. It's the American way innit? Male prostitutes, methamphetamines, interns, blowjobs at work, diaper play, and the list rolls. So what if a certain gent may like to travel elsewhere for entertainment?"
"Either you explain your vague allusions or I assume you eat shit in a bunny suit to get off and have fun mental image dancing around my head." Casey's remark gave Joe a chuckle which immediately led to the departure of his cigarette.
"Well, love, it just so happens the vagina and I aren't acquaintances, I'm more familiar with her neighbor."
"You like anal too?" Mali blurted out before realizing quite what she said.
"Your gay?" Parker remarked, Mali's words going unnoticed to his naive ears.
"Sweet christmas Parker, that's the greatest thing i've ever heard. I'm so glad you came. God." Casey patted Parker on the head all the while receiving a chastising look, reminding her to refrain from using his deity's name so frivilously.
"Bullocks to the lot o' ye, I'm saving that hole for someone special."
"Well it's going to have to be someone special if you keep referring to it as a hole."
"Oh fuckoff the lot of ye, i'm not havin' you poppycocks stomp me excitement. I even have a yarn for you all, though it's not furnished to my liking. Hand me that bloody dice."
He snatched the destiny bringers from Joe's lofty hands and with a single curl, two by on by two greeted his European grin. "My fuckin' luck. Oh well, I'll make it work."
Her story began as a tale told to dark men in dark places. she began ordinary, a banker's wife, left to the ordinary devices of motherhood. She greeted the sun each morning, and greeted her children each night. Everything was as it should have been. Ordinary. But nothing lasts forever.
Soon the economy grew dire, a state that found her husband jobless and instead of greeting the sun and her children, she awoke to vomit and despair and ended with broken dreams and much more physical bruises. As matters grew worse, her husband sought less than savory outlets for an income. Soon he arrived on the doorstep of the local mobster, a large man by the name of Mikhail. With that new found job came a price.
After arriving home from picking up groceries, she was welcomed by crimson patterns leading from the doorstep to the backyard, chunks of hair and flesh decorating the walkway. It was said that the neighbors heard not the sound of the glass jars breaking, but that of her breaking. She could stand no more and dared not look at the atrocity that was her everything. The flayed flesh of her children was too much, so much so that she gouged her own eye out, leaving it behind so she dare not look with the other.
Thus They Call Her One Eye.
She hunted them down, enacting a revenge suited to the lawless and unruly life they led, a life she soon ended, bit by bit. She used all means available to eliminate her targets. Disguise and deception were hers to command and the mob found itself with only one member left: Mikhail. His death was neither subtle or quiet. The towns people awoke to find him mounted like a scarecrow.
This scarecrow was but one of many. Eventually any miscreant who committed a crime, those who beat their spouse, those who committed adultery, they were prey for the one They Call One Eye.
One Eye had a different story to tell however. She came home from a night of justice, not greeted by a vacant house, but a quaint cottage. She sat her shotgun down by her coatrack, sat in her single armchair and began to knit. There were no photos to haunt her, no shoes or clothes to remind her, no space to put that sort of thing.
Simply a lady with a shotgun, boredom and an obvious childhood accident.