The weirdness continues. Craven is attempting to learn how to use explosives. He damn near killes us when he blew up the train we had been on which crashed. I’m not sure what his reasoning was…beyond his own personal enjoyment.

We found some dug up graves and followed the tracks left from the dragging bodies. As expected we ran into a fight. {Side Note: I am begining to be concerned by my own lack of horror at the escalating number of bizarre encounters we have.}

After dispatching the abominations which killed our horses, we finally made our way to the Diablo bar. We sipped on some taquila, went to bed amd awoke to a high volume of gunfire. Craven seemed unnerved…..again….and rushed us downstairs. There we encountered a wolf monster thing which was looking for Craven. Oddly a pretty little blonde girl killed it.

Craven proceeded to barricade the doors while having an unusual conversation with her…

My Lonesome Dove,

I am standing upon the bevelled edge. If there is any part of you that has tenaciously held onto your faith, and any surity that your prayers will not ricochet off the heavens, than I would entreat you to say one for me.

We killed a god.

That statement makes me sound mad. Lest it be metaphorical. Or sacrilegious. But it is neither – it is literal. We killed a deity. To be perfectly accurate, a horrid aberration that was once a god. In another place and time, in another realm and reality. We put down its monstrous steward and put an end to its murder and butchery of innocents. A train of cannibalistic horrors nearly waylaid us, but at the end of it all we confronted the vile corruption that was once Torm, and we ended the Golgoroth. We all but paid for it with the lives of every one of us.

And these idiots want to put another notch in their belt like some merry band of mercenaries.

Any sane person would leave these fools and heathens to their fate. They carry on like jesters in the Queen’s court, heedless of their plight or situation. Mindlessly prancing about, prattling on about their nonsensical thoughts and desires, wreaking havoc, death and destruction at every turn. Putting everything and everyone at risk. No sober sense of purpose, no vital sense of urgency.

We stand upon the precipice of Armageddon and they behave like they’re at a tea party.

But I cannot bring myself to abandon these fools. I should, but I cannot. I cannot shake the feeling that they all have a part to play, some critical purpose, some heavy brand of fate upon their souls. Perhaps there is a brand upon mine, and that is the proverbial cross that I bear.

I imagine the Bard of Avon was correct.“This life, which had been the tomb of his virtue and of his honour, is but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more: it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.”

Say a prayer for me, my Darling Dove, that mine has some significance after all.

Endearingly, Jonah “Cuchuliann” Sterling

My Esteemed Lord Provost, Thomas Jamieson Boyd

I am writing you regarding a most urgent matter. I have been referred to you by my mentor and your former colleague, Professor Abraham Peddengast.

He assures me you are the foremost authority on hematology and contemporary blood transfusions, and your record of success at the latter is beyond exemplary. As such I am confident that you are in possession of the most modern venesection equipment, which I am in dire need of.

I must urge you to respond post haste, as my patient’s condition worsens daily. My hope is that you respond favorably to my peculiar request and validate it with the necessary equipment for a full blood transfusion.

Sincerely, Professor Craven Nathaniel Stirge

The letter is sent via the Postmaster General to the Lord Provost, Thomas Jamieson Boyd, c/o Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, Scotland.

My Esteemed Master Jimmy Ivy,

I am afraid I have been rather remiss in not returning your things these past several months.

It would seem that we had a most brief encounter, and in that very instant, you had left behind your jacket. I had pressing matters that necessitated my urgent flight from New York City, and as such never had the wherewithal to return the articles back to their rightful owner until recently. I beg your forgiveness – both for the tardiness of this package and letter, as well as for searching your coat pockets, for had I not done so I wouldn’t have found the business card with your name and address.

I trust you will find that the jacket as well as the contents within to be as you left them and in their entirety. I do hope they find you expediently and that they also find you well.

It is my hope that you do me the courtesy of penning me a letter to confirm that you have received your belongings. I have a task that might suit your disposition and would also promise you dutiful compensation upon its completion.

Sincerely, Jonah “Cuchulainn” Sterling

The letter accompanies a package with Jimmy Ivy’s Jacket and all the contents, sent by the local Postmaster General. It is addressed to Jimmy Ivy, c/o the New York Evening Sun.

My Lonesome Dove,

I am doing quite well.

I know this is presumptuous of me, as you have never inquired. Nary once have you taken yourself away from your busy schedule to pry into my disposition or my welfare. I’m not sure whether you have concerned yourself with me since the day your tore yourself away. Leaving me with a gaping wound, distraught, bereaved and confused must have been traumatic for you as well, dear one.

Thanks to my friends, however, I am getting along quite well. I know this will please you.

Better than I ever was when we were attached at the hip. I daresay I am the best I have ever been. Being torn asunder and parting ways may have been the most fortunate thing to have happened to the both of us. I must have been a tiresome burden, traipsing around after you all those years.

I shall weary you no longer with this paltry letter.

Farewell, my Saccharin Sister.

Sincerely, Jonah “Cuchulainn” Sterling

When the outside temperature rises
And the meaning is oh so clear
One thousand and one yellow daffodils
Begin to dance in front of you – oh dear
Are they trying to tell you something?
You’re missing that one final screw
You’re simply not in the pink my dear
To be honest you haven’t got a clue

I’m going slightly mad
I’m going slightly mad
It finally happened – happened
It finally happened – ooh oh
It finally happened – I’m slightly mad – Oh dear!

I’m one card short of a full deck
I’m not quite the shilling
One wave short of a shipwreck
I’m not at my usual top billing
I’m coming down with a fever
I’m really out to sea
This kettle is boiling over
I think I’m a banana tree

Oh dear, I’m going slightly mad
I’m going slightly mad
It finally happened, happened
It finally happened uh huh
It finally happened I’m slightly mad – oh dear!

I’m knitting with only one needle
Unravelling fast its true
I’m driving only three wheels these days
But my dear how about you?

I’m going slightly mad
I’m going slightly mad
It finally happened
It finally happened oh yes
It finally happened
I’m slightly mad!
Just very slightly mad!
And there you have it!

“Gunslinger’s Glory”

Creep and crawl until you fall into that old dark room
Where you left your sins and all of your friends
Staring back the old man’s lies as he watched you drown
You get up and you just splash around

Never really knowing why, they won’t understand
As you hang from the tree with that look of despair
Pulling out your guns and blast another round
Oh, one of these days you got your, you got your crown

I want to be the very best
Best there ever is
The quickest draw
The toughest motherfucker in these lands
I want to be the very best
Best there ever is
The quickest draw
The toughest motherfucker in these… lands

Going around every day as I shoot away
Taking ‘em on down to their knees to pray
Make my way up to the top, as I knew I would
Being a gunslinger is a glory and goddamn, goddamn it’s good

I want to be the very best
Best there ever is
The quickest draw
The toughest motherfucker in these lands
I want to be the very best
Best there ever is
The quickest draw
The toughest motherfucker in these… lands

Well I got my wish, I was the best
The only problem is
I’m laying on the cold cement
With a bullet… in my head
In my head
In my head
Now I’m dead

I find myself at odds with logic. While I had originally hung around this group of misfits in hopes of making a few sales, I am begining to think of them almost as friends. They….we continually find ourselves in bizarre, unexplainable situations. I feel as though death is always just around the corner.

This past evening we found ourselves in a train of horror. To make things more interesting, we found a young man dressed in odd clothing with the word NIRVANA emblazoned on his chest. He was also wearing a weird headband he claimed played music. I took a peek at the newspaper he carried and saw the date was marked 1994. I can’t fully grasp this as a reality.

To make things worse, I killed a God to save my companions and Still Can’t Seem To Convince Them of the quality I a D.P. Firearm. I’m simply wasting my own ammunition without gaining any prodfit.

At least I get to play with my cannons.

Dearest Diary I write to you again knowing something most strange indeed.

I seem to have met my future self and if she didn’t die by the Cravens hand-
I donr know what to make of this world.

News though! The affliction can be cured!!

Anyways I hear my food deliciously pink I’m sure.

-Mercy Faye Lee

My Sweet Lonesome Dove,

It didn’t take an oracle to predict that Theodore would bring about his own demise.

Dang fool would have steered clear of that vile aberration if he had any sense – particularly if he knowed that I had that thing in my sites. But I already figured him for not having a lick o’ sense.

He did have a death wish, though, that’s fer sure and fer certain.

I bared down on that creature with my rifle hot-loaded with a full bore o’ wrath, and took it out with two clean shots. Theodore was in the gelatinous innards of the beast, and nary a shot missed him – what was left of that poor oaf was nigh unrecognizable.

I suppose I should mourn his passing, but finding poor Mary’s remains struck me more to the quick.

Losing a single foolhardy whelp over losing the entire posse seems to me an acceptable loss. I reckon some would call that savage and cold-hearted, but I find myself concerned with that not in the least.

Another notch in my belt, there is clearly room for.

Sincerely yours, Jonah “Cuchulainn” Sterling