The Lone Wolve's Song

Outlaw Country

Somewhere in the South, lay a land shrouded in fog. Behind the fog, lay a city which hath no name. Dirtier than a hooker's apartment, and probably twice as infectious. Filled with more scum than the underside of a coffin's head. A place with the stench of death on every doorstep, where you have to step over broken bloodied bottles, shattered like dreams on every bloodlined, whore ridden corner. A city that doesn't exist, that definitely shouldn't, and yet, it simply is. The people there call it home. Ever since the rise of roman catholicism, most people call it Purgatory. However, to Luciano, this was, is, and always will be, Outlaw Country--U.S.A.

A place, he lost long ago, and has been trying ever since to find.

That's not to say he didn't spend every waking hour dreading it when he was there. Escape was all anyone ever wanted. Release from that accursed town. Some might call his escape a miracle, but not him. To him, there was no such thing as miracles. To him, it was all in the luck of the draw.

Speaking of...

"Four Aces boys. The Morningstar wins again."

Luciano had come a long way since his stumbling out of a dark alley that fateful night. A little boy who stumbled into the Nevada desert one night had made his way to a beacon of hope. A city of Light, and a city of Sin. It would be his. He was born again, with a reputation and a name to match--Lucifer, Prince of the Dark.

He drags hard on his cigar, inhaling a vicious smog. Across from him, his....associate....coughs in turn. He stares around him, at the faded red room. A stench of tobacco and death filled his nostrils. Dragging slowly out of the chair, the old man tosses a briefcase of cash on the table.

"Forty K. Nothing more," he wheezed sternly.

Smiling smugly, Luci begins to chuckle, and in a composed faintly Italian accent, he responded.

"I believe we agreed upon a hundred thousand. Was that not the deal, my friend?"

Behind horn-rimmed glasses, you could see the old man--let's call him Anthony--you could see Tony's eyes squint in anger.

"You have a lot of nerve you know."

"Well you know what they say. Don't make deals with the devil," Luci said with a laugh.

"Damn it man. 100 thou? You're fucking with me. I thought the name was a misnomer. King of Hell. I didn't think you'd actually deal in souls."

"Now now my dear, surely we can work something out," he said coyly.

Tony looked shaken, but he still manages to slide his chair out slowly.

"We're leaving," said the old man.

Turning around, the two guards by his side moved to the door ahead, moving to open.

Big mistake.

The lone bulb ahead started to flicker.

Flick went El Diablo's hand.

And CLICK went the lone door's lock.

"I want. My winnings."

This is how things went here. From the outside, this was just a little dive bar named Joe's. A place no one looks twice at. A place the cops avoid on principle. Run down, beat up, and far less alive than undead. But down here in the red room--They called it the Devil's Den.

Pulling a shining silver pistol from his pocket, Luci starts to wipe a red stain from the barrel.

"Blood or wine?" he thought to himself. Not that it mattered.