"The Contract"
It was just another sweat-soaked day in Dustyville with the sun beating down on the sheriff and his employees as they loaded what felt like the hundredth barrel of oil onto the wagon. Suddenly, Old Man Johnson, who had been sitting on his porch and polishing his lucky bronze pickaxe exclaimed, “Skeletons are attacking! They’ve come to take our oil, darn it!” As his employees rushed for their weapons, Sheriff Tattersman sighed, set down his oil barrel, and squinted off into the desert in the direction Johnson was pointing. Sure enough, there were roughly two score of those bony menaces, wearing the ragged, moldy old clothes they were buried in. But curiously, unlike all the previous monster invasions this town had been through, each of them was armed with a gleaming rifle.
Tattersman
pulled out his own rifle and casually ambled toward the town entrance, where a
sign boldly proclaimed: “Welcome to Dustyville. Now get out!” Just then, a
swirling cloud of dust kicked up directly in front of him. As he stood there
and glared at the poorly timed dust devil, waiting for it to disperse, his
posse of ten gathered around him, rifles in hand. He could hear townspeople
streaming into the street behind him with their weapons.
As
suddenly as it had appeared, the dust cloud dispersed, and in its place stood a
most unusual skeleton. It was extravagantly attired in a crimson vest and chaps
made of imported silken velvet, with a matching Stetson hat atop its gleaming,
ivory skull. Its black, patent leather boots were adorned with gold-plated
spurs, which coordinated well with its gold-plated six-shooters and single,
gilded incisor. The glowing pinpoints of red light that served as its eyes
stared menacingly from under the brim of its hat.
“Greetings,
Mr. Tattersman,” said the skeleton in a calm, genteel tone. There was a
collective gasp from the townspeople as they stared in awe. Old Man Johnson
muttered “What in tarnation?” under his breath as he loosened the wax in his
good ear with a gnarled old finger. They’d never known a skeleton to talk
before.
The
sheriff glared quizzically at the abomination before him and furiously shouted,
“What is a foul demon like you doing here? Haven’t we made it obvious that your
kind are not welcome?”
“Is
that how you would greet a fellow businessman? I am Lord Marrowsworth. I’m here
because you so rudely broke your contract with me. I even sent you a politely
worded correspondence urging you to reconsider. But no, your greed has drowned
out your decency, so I have been forced to come here myself to demand that you
honor our business deal.”
The
sheriff stood there, mouth agape, for a few seconds before he finally collected
himself and spat, “I never would’ve agreed to sell if I’d realized you
were one of the wretched undead.”
“Since
you insist upon being unreasonable in not honoring our contract as written,
then I propose an amendment. You keep the town, I take the oil, and this
disagreement is resolved peacefully.”
Laughing
coarsely, Sheriff Tattersman proclaimed, “I will never give my oil to a fool
like you who is outnumbered five to one. Come on men, let’s send these demons
back to the abyss they crawled out of!” The ground where Marrowsworth had been
standing erupted in a cloud of dust as it was pelted with a barrage of bullets.
But when the dust settled, there was no trace of him.
An
eerily calm voice came from the direction of the saloon. “No, Mr. Tattersman. You
are a fool if you think I’m going to stand there and just take all those
bullets.” The sheriff’s forces turned as one to see the skeleton standing on
the saloon’s second floor balcony. He flourished his bony right hand, and a
crenellated wall of dirt emerged from the ground in front of his skeletal
riflemen. He pointed at the sheriff’s forces and the skeletons began returning
fire.
As
the townspeople took cover behind the buildings, random barrels, and wagons on
the town square, Tattersman barked, “Men, take out those riflemen! I’ll deal
with this thing.” Then he gestured to his posse as he ran toward the
saloon. “Y’all come with me!”
The
sheriff barreled through the doors of the saloon with the sound of gunfire
behind him. As his men came alongside him, Marrowsworth suddenly materialized
at the top of the stairs leading to the second floor. “I had hoped we could
settle this like gentlemen, but the tables have turned.” With a wave of his
hand, a saloon table hurtled through the air. Tattersman managed to duck out of
the way just in time, while half of his men were bowled over like ninepins.
Before they had time to get up, a second table hurtled through the air and
crashed down on top of them, merging them with the floor.
Before
further tables could be flung, Tattersman whipped out his well-worn bowie knife
and charged at Marrowsworth. As the sheriff swung his knife at the skeleton’s
head, Marrowsworth pointed at the knife and a ray of pale light blasted the
blade, turning it to dust. As if by its own volition, the dust wafted straight
into Tattersman’s eyes. Marrowsworth jumped back, muttered a phrase under his
non-existent breath, and an explosion like a firework went off above the town
square. Seeing this signal, many unseen
creatures began heading toward it. The sheriff stumbled back, desperately
trying to rub the dust out of his eyes. As the remnants of his posse charged
toward the unsettlingly calm skeleton, yet another table flew through the air
and embedded itself in the floor at a ninety-degree angle, creating a tall,
circular barricade. Then, much to their surprise, a strong gust of wind sucked
the pane of glass right out of a nearby window and sent shards hurtling
outside. In their place, appeared a living dust devil with glowing red eyes and
a haunting, jagged mouth reminiscent of a jack-o’-lantern.
On
the square, the townsfolk had been bitterly trying to defend their town from
the skeleton riflemen, but neither side had made much progress and only a few
people had been killed. That was about to change. Into the alleys swarmed a
host of vicious living tumbleweeds followed by a herd of levitating cow skulls
and a trio of sentient dust devils. They were met by many townspeople—including
Old Man Johnson—brandishing pickaxes and shovels. The townspeople fought
courageously despite the fact that they were armed only with digging
implements, for they were driven by greed. But as the battle dragged on, many
of them began to succumb to nasty, bleeding wounds inflicted by the
tumbleweeds. The cow skulls and dust devils were close to pushing through to
the square.
Crushing
a tumbleweed against the wall with his trusty pickaxe, Old Man Johnson shouted,
“Retreat! We need to regroup with the rest of the men so they can fill those
monsters full of lead!” As they retreated toward the entrance to town, they
were joined by several townspeople who had been fighting the skeletons. But
just as it seemed they had a chance, those blasted cow skulls spontaneously
ignited and charged forward, goring and setting fire to many of the townsfolk.
A handful of uninjured stragglers desperately holed up in the post office.
The
saloon entrance exploded in a shower of splinters as Sheriff Tattersman was
propelled through the wall by a table and landed hard on the ground outside. He
stood up and surveyed the scene. His men were being pushed back by a horde of
monsters and several of them were attempting to defend the post office, but
they were outnumbered by the deadly tumbleweeds. He sprinted over to a nearby
shed and threw open the door. Inside were two crates of dynamite. Lifting one
crate up over his head, he ran toward the post office.
“What’re
you doin’ with that dynamite?” shouted Old Man Johnson.
“I’m
gonna blow up the post office!” the sheriff said.
“What
about John and Billy and Dave and Phil? They’re still in there! And others,
too!”
“Nobody
asked,” retorted the sheriff as he ignited the dynamite and lobbed it through
the post office window. With a tremendous explosion, the post office was
transformed into a pile of charred splinters, smoldering corpses, and burnt tumbleweeds.
Glaring at Tattersman, Johnson angrily stomped off into an alleyway.
Just
then, the last surviving member of the sheriff’s posse raced into the shed with
a dust devil in pursuit. He grabbed the remaining case of dynamite, but the
dust devil was almost upon him. “Well Dusty, this is the end of me,” he sighed
resignedly before igniting the dynamite and throwing it at the dust devil five
feet in front of him. With another impressive explosion, the remains of the
posse and that pesky dust devil were blown to bits and the last of the dynamite
was expended.
With
a puff of smoke, Lord Marrowsworth appeared thirty feet in front of Tattersman,
wielding his gold-plated revolvers. “Was that really necessary, Tattersman?” asked
Marrowsworth disdainfully.
“You’re
darn right it was, and it’s none of your business anyway!” spat Tattersman.
Muttering
a strange incantation under his breath, Marrowsworth fired a flaming bullet from
his gilded revolver. Tattersman quickly dove behind a barrel of salted meat.
When the bullet struck, the barrel exploded into a cascade of flames. Snarling,
Tattersman pulled out his own gun and rapidly fired six bullets at
Marrowsworth, but confoundingly, they appeared to ricochet off of an invisible
barrier.
Now
Marrowsworth was nowhere in sight, and as he spun around, Tattersman felt a
bullet slam into his right shoulder. Cold washed over him, numbing his arm, and
causing him to drop his revolver. Marrowsworth promptly put a bullet through the
gun, rendering it inoperable. With his good arm, the sheriff clumsily whipped
out his rifle and fired at his foe, but that smug abomination effortlessly
dodged the bullet. Realizing it would take him forever to reload it one-handed,
Tattersman furiously chucked the empty rifle at Marrowsworth, but it stopped in
midair, turned back toward the sheriff, and started shooting ghostly
projectiles on its own. After dodging three ghost bullets, Tattersman took one
to his left shin. Stumbling forward in agony, he snatched the rifle out of the
air with his good arm and tossed it through a nearby window.
Suddenly,
out of an alleyway rode Old Man Johnson, his two horses pulling a small train
of wagons loaded with supplies and a single barrel of oil. “I’m outta here!
Who’s comin’ with me?” he shouted. About two-thirds of the sheriff’s remaining
force took him up on his offer and climbed into the wagons. As Tattersman
glared at him coldly, Johnson explained, “I haven’t been paid this month, so
I’m takin’ this barrel as compensation.” Marrowsworth nodded and stepped to the
side, allowing him to pass.
Gesturing
at the last remnant of Tattersman’s forces, Marrowsworth noted solemnly, “It’s
over Tattersman. Just give me the oil.”
Screaming
incoherently, the sheriff limped toward him, grabbing a shovel off the ground
as he went.
“I’m
sorry it had to end this way,” whispered the lich. With a wave of his skeletal
hand, the life drained right out of Tattersman, and he slumped to the ground
dead.
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Epilogue
Levitating toward the freshly painted building on the town square, Blex the beholder used one eye stalk to examine the sign by the door, which read in gold letters, “Marrowsworth Monster Lair Builders & Property Development, LLC.” Directly below the text was a silver sheriff’s badge with the company logo engraved on it. Opening the door with a telekinesis ray, Blex drifted inside and was greeted by the smooth, friendly voice of Lord Marrowsworth. “Welcome to Marrowsworth Monster Lair Builders! What can I do for you?”
