I Hate This Gun...

Somewhere in the vast deserts of  the old west, there was a dusty, ragged and rugged old mining town. And in that old mining town-- just like so many others like it-- there was a saloon. The saloon was poorly lit, dirty, and smelled of alcohol with an aftertaste of blood and semen. Every creaking wooden nook was densely populated with shady characters, all of whom were a minimum of tipsy, and none of whom had bathed recently. There was yelling and fighting, gambling and vomiting, and of course the occasional gunshot. Everyone was having a perfectly perverse time.

Origin Stories

It was the beginning (though no one had realized it yet), and he was hungry. He sat there naked below the tree, thinking of ways to get at its fruit. It was a perfectly ordinary tree, and it grew perfectly ordinary fruit, it was not forbidden and it contained no knowledge. It simply existed-- or so he thought-- to fill the hole in his stomach.

The Masquerade

They danced and glided effortlessly about the room,
Anonymous specters of prophesied doom.
Their faceless faces,
Their nameless races,
Concealed from each other,
Concealed from themselves.

Their secrets and lies,
Their fake joyous cries,
Echoed by a black ceiling,
Back to those hearts so unfeeling.
Their disguises become identity,
They forget what they're hiding.

Their ball is so truthless
With their facade so ruthless,
Their eyes filled with hate
For a once normal state.
Their masks try to cover their normalcy,
But they slaughter all uniqueness.