The desert didn’t whisper; it groaned. Wind dragged heat through the dust like a dying man’s last breath, and the sun beat down like it was punishing the land for something it hadn’t confessed to. A single man crawled across this blistered plain—hat lost, boots torn, lips cracked like old leather. He was the sort of man who looked like he’d tried to fight the desert and lost the argument halfway through the first sentence.

He went by the name of Ellis Pike, though at this point, he was considering changing it to "Poor Bastard" if he lived long enough to write it down.

“Two more steps,” Ellis muttered. “Just two more steps and then ... ah hell.”

He collapsed in a puff of sand and grit, face-first into the earth, buzzards circling like bored dinner guests. His eyelids fluttered. Through the shimmer of heat, he saw hooves. A horse. A silhouette. Salvation—or maybe just Death dressed in spurs.

A boot nudged him.

“Awful lotta noise for someone who looks halfway dead,” came a dry voice, flat as a Kansas highway.

Ellis looked up into the face of a man who seemed carved from spite and tobacco spit. Leather duster, week-old stubble, hat dipped low. He squinted at Ellis like someone trying to identify a stain.

“You an angel?” Ellis croaked.

The man snorted. “Yeah, sure. Let me fetch my harp and halo. You want salvation or not, chatterbox?”

Next thing Ellis knew, he was slung across the back of the stranger’s horse like a sack of regret. The stranger climbed into the saddle, tugging the brim of his hat down.

“Name’s Ellis Pike,” Ellis wheezed. “Appreciate the help, mister. What's your name?”

“You wouldn’t use it right if I gave it to you.”

“Well now that’s just cryptic. You in some kind of trouble?”

“Nope,” the man said. “I am trouble.”

Ellis laughed—then winced. “Heh. You one o’ them poetic types?”

The stranger grunted. “You always this chatty when dying?”

“Usually I get worse. Once talked a priest into drinkin’ with me after bein’ gutshot. Said it was a holy experience.”

“I believe it. Mostly the part about you bein’ a pain in the ass.”

The road shimmered as they approached the town of Sundown Hollow—named either for the hour most of its murders happened or the angle at which its one good saloon faced the dying sun. The buildings leaned like drunks in a brawl, and everything smelled faintly of gunpowder, horse sweat, and last chances.

A crooked sign greeted them: WELCOME TO SUNDOWN HOLLOW – POP: VARIABLE.

As they entered, Ellis pointed to a place that looked less like a clinic and more like a barbershop with regrets.

“There! Ol’ Doc Merton runs that place. He once stitched my brother’s head back together. Only problem was, it wasn’t my brother’s head.”

The stranger ignored him and steered the horse toward the hitching post, eyes scanning every alley and rooftop.

“You always this twitchy?” Ellis asked.

“You always this mouthy?” the stranger replied.

“Only when I’m feelin’ safe, which, thanks to you, I now do.”

As the stranger helped Ellis down, five men stepped into the road. Dust curled around their boots like a curtain rising on a bad play. Guns gleamed on their hips, and the tallest one spat a wad of tobacco right onto the hitching post.

“Well, well,” said the leader. “Ain’t this a sight. The Black Vulture, strollin’ into town like he ain’t worth more’n a small ranch in bounty.”

Ellis blinked. “Wait, Black Vulture? That you?”

The stranger sighed.

“Of all the godforsaken towns,” he muttered.

“Boys,” said the leader, “five thousand dollars says we drop him right here.”

The stranger looked at Ellis.

“You see what happens when you talk too much? People start noticin' things.”

Ellis blinked at the five guns pointed their way.

“Well,” he said, “I’m startin’ to feel less safe.”

The Black Vulture rolled his shoulders and stepped forward, his voice colder than grave dirt.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Just as the tension reached its peak, a loud voice rang out across the dusty street.

"Cut!" The voice belonged to a man named Steven, the director of the film being shot in Sundown Hollow. He marched onto the set, a scowl on his face as he approached the actors.

"What in tarnation was that?" Steven bellowed, glaring at the actors. "I said intense, not comical! This is supposed to be a gritty Western, not a vaudeville show!"

The actors shifted uncomfortably, trying to defend their performances. But Steven wasn't having it. He launched into a tirade, criticizing every aspect of their acting, from their delivery of lines to their posture on horseback.

"You call that gun-slinging?" Steven shouted, pointing at the Black Vulture actor who stood there awkwardly. "I've seen more conviction from a drunk at a rodeo! And you, Ellis, don't even get me started on your dramatic death scene. It was more like a bad soap opera!"

The actors exchanged glances, unsure of how to respond to Steven's harsh critique. But they knew they had to take it in stride if they wanted to salvage the scene.

As Steven continued to berate them, the crew scrambled to reset the scene, moving props and adjusting lighting. The actors took a deep breath, bracing themselves for another take.

"Alright, people," Steven declared, his voice booming. "Let's do this again, and this time, I want to see some real grit and intensity! Action!"