Casinos in or near Asheville, North Carolina NC

Ramtidings, dear friends! It is I, your dutiful lord and master, the eternal GM. My sabbatical proved most fruitful, having figured out some depth mechanics for 3 dimensional combat in my pet project, Blood & Thunder, a maritime piracy RPG that has been both a joy and a nerve-wracking nightmare to create. If you want to see what's going on with that, you can swing by patreon.com/BlackFlagPrintingPress to take a look or support my endeavors. But I digress, because I did not come here today to talk about Blood & Thunder, no. I came here with something else in mind, good friends, for while I have been writing my bread and butter, you have gone without your beard and butter, and this is unacceptable! And so, I have trawled the depths of my memory to bring you yet another TAAAAAALE FROM THE TABLETOP, lovingly subtitled A Prologue Into Poverty.
Life is not an easy thing. There was a time when life was very difficult for me. I had far less than most, and I went without frequently, my entire life loaded into a backpack of bare necessities. Joys were few and times were hard, but I made the best of it. I traveled the countryside, mostly alone, making friends where I could amongst the other forgotten souls who haunt the streets of the United States. I met a good number of people, many of them listless drifters in their own right, who became fast friends. We would hang out for a time, but like all drifters, we would eventually part ways, called to different places to do different things. I had just come from North Carolina. I had been in Asheville, playing bluegrass to make money with friends who eventually proved dishonest, and so I parted ways with them. While in Asheville, I had met a girl, also on the road like myself, and I developed a massive crush on her. Fortune would have it that our time together was short lived, as she disappeared on a freighter down the train tracks, and I layed curled up in a bush sick as a dog for the next 3 days.
You can't get a ride from a freighter with 8 people without getting pulled off by johnny law. Our group had fractured, and myself and one other soul continued on our own, until we parted ways in Atlanta. Now, on my own, clueless and green, I wandered aimlessly, until a friend of mine at the time reached out to me by way of the internet. He had work for me, back in California, if I could just make it there. What's 3000 miles? I've got this. I walked out of Atlanta, hitched a series of rides to Arkansas, and then caught a freighter myself, all the way back to the west coast while UP did the driving. I laid on the back of that train for 3 days until I finally ran out of water and decided to get off. I was in Los Angeles. After a bit of panhandling, I got a bus into the central valley, and my friend came and scooped me up. I worked on my friends farm for a bit, building green houses and stacking money until the time came for me to once again depart. During that time, my crush from North Carolina had found me on Facebook. We got to talking.
She told me she had gone back home to Wisconsin and was working in some greasy spoon trying to save up money to afford a bus. She'd been back for awhile now, but wasn't making any headway. Her vices were getting the best of her, and she couldn't seem to get ahead. I told her she needed to knock that shit off and clean up her act. After a long enough time talking, however, things started to get flirty and dirty.
I wanted to see her, and it's actually amazing what a guy will do for love. You're how far away? Piece of cake. Hold my beer. With the work season coming to a close, I took my pay and my leave of my old friend, and he dropped me off in Modesto at the Greyhound. On the way out, he loaded me up with gifts for my travels - a new backpack, socks, a sleeping bag, some snacks for the ride... and naturally, he gave me a gift that I always treasure. He gave me a set of RPG dice. I gave my boy a hug, wished him well in his endeavors, and promised I'd be back in the fall to help him with the harvest and gathering firewood. So I went on my merry way.
I absolutely despise Greyhounds. Have you ever been on one? It's miserable. There's no room to stretch out unless you sit in the back, right by the toilet. Some asshole is always blaring garbage mumble rap on his phone all day long. It doesn't matter who you are - at the end of the trip you exude the pungent aroma of a neckbeard. This didn't bother me too much - personal hygiene suffers when you have no way to bathe regularly, so I was used to being dirty, and my friends from the road were usually very dirty people in their own right at the time, so I could handle a certain degree of grossness... within limits. I did shower at my friend's farm before I boarded that bus, though, and was feeling rather spiffy - clean body, clean clothes. Life was good and I was on my way to see my woman.
I did my best to zone out. I tried to sleep as much as I could and ignore the general atmosphere of the bus, but that was no longer an option after a layover in Las Vegas. We boarded the bus once more after an almost 24 hour delay on our schedules, and finally got moving again. I sat in the back near the toilet, as I was no stranger to this game and wanted that bench seat, and foul smells at the time didn't bother me much... or so I thought. With the bus filling up and the seats reducing to slim pickings, it dawned on me that my coveted back seat bench was going to get shared. Then, I saw him... the Busbeard.
I'm usually a pretty nice person, but I did not want my coveted backseat benchseat getting taken up, let alone by this massive lardass that now lumbered towards me. I did everything in my power to seem as big and hostile as I could. This was all in vain, however, as some people cannot read social cues. I stared at him, dripping hostility, mentally repeating sit somewhere else like it was a Zen mantra. However, nobody wanted him to sit by them either, and so, he made his way, closer and closer, as he asked people if seats were taken until he got to me at the back. He shifted to sit into the seat, angling his ass in the general direction of my face. The smell of soggy feces-laden underwear wafted up as he slid his bulk onto the bench.
Did I mention that personal hygiene suffers on a greyhound bus ride, especially when you've been riding for days? I've taken my fair share of Greyhounds, and it's unlikely that this new arrival had been riding for awhile. He was eastbound, like the rest of us, and we were in Las Vegas. His point of origin was... not very far east. I had only been on the bus for approximately a day so far, minus the extended layover time of course, so I was getting a ittle sweaty myself, but this guy smelled as if he not only lived on this bus, but was born in the blue poop goop of the latrine. It was a question worthy of debate as to whether this man had actually employed the use of a speed stick in his life. His patchy jowels jiggled at me as he said, hi.
I responded with a gruff and monotone hello, and then turned my attentions to the window, watching the bus depot workers loading up suitcases beneath. My fate was sealed. This man was to be my travel companion all the way to Denver. I decided then that maybe it would be best to ignore him. I plugged in my phone, booted up an emulator I had downloaded, and started to play some Pokemon to whittle away the hours. It didn't take long, however, before I could feel his olfactory looming become physical looming as he examined the screen upon which I played from over my shoulder.
Busbeard: Pokemon? I fucking love Pokemon! I didn't know you could play it on a phone. How are you doing that?
His heavy respirations were like an infusion of green spearmint and halitosis.
GM: Emulators.
I went back to my game, trying to angle myself away from him in such a way that he couldn't lean over my shoulder and watch me as I trained my team, but I was effectively sandwiched between him and the wall, forced to sit straight as he leaned over and watched me play. I debated then, what I ought to do. Playing Pokemon would make the time fly, but I would be crushed between the window and a sweaty fat man. Not playing Pokemon would save me the physical agony of being squished, but I would be painfully bored for seemingly endless miles, and he may use it as an opportunity to interact further. A decision needed to be made.
I shut the emulator off and put away my phone, turning my attention back out the window as the bus pulled out of the Las Vegas terminal and began down the freeway. It was not long after we had pulled out of the station, however, when that wheezing, rasping voice chirped up again.
Busbeard: So where are you going?
I ignored him, focusing on the casinos towering in the distance of the skyline, pretending as if I hadn't heard the question, or as if it weren't addressed at me. With insistance, he repeated his question at my turned back again, searching for a response within my stony exterior. I mumbled, the Midwest, and he questioningly grunted, and asked me to repeat myself. I guess we're doing this.
GM: I'm going to the Midwest.
Busbeard: Where in the Midwest?
GM: Wisconsin.
Busbeard: I've never been to Wisconsin before, but I know they got really good cheese! Hyuk hyuk... Is that why you're going there?
Judging by his smell, he must have been an excessively avid connosieur of fine Wisconsinite cheese. However, cheese was the last thing on my mind at the time.I was enamored with my lady love.
GM: I'm going to see an old friend.
Busbeard: Oh, that's cool... who is it?
The odds of this man knowing the person who I was on my way to visit were astronomically low. Your odds of getting struck by lightning, winning the lottery, and becoming president in the same day were probably higher than this cretin knowing the one specific person whom I was going to go visit in some backwater Wisconsin town. Still, I humored him, and in the same flat voice, answered his question, and told him I was on my way to see my sweetheart.
This caught Busbeard's attention. For a grown man in his mid 30s, he let out a loud "oooooooo" like a middle schooler would when he finds out his friend has a crush. I contemplated execution methods and the subjective severity of their barbarism as he excitedly asked me where she was from.
GM: Wisconsin.
Busbeard: Yeah... but, where in Wiconsin?
GM: Fuck off, dude. I'm not going to tell you the town where she lives.
Busbeard: Heh! I'd be terrified of telling a superior male like me where my girlfriend lives, too. A little kid like you wouldn't stand a chance next to a man like me. Her panties would hit the floor from one whiff of my pheromones. It happens all the time, bro, I swear. I could have any woman on this bus. They just can't resist me. They can sense my manhood, I know it.
I shouldn't stir the pot. All common sense tells me that I should just stop myself while I'm ahead, but sometimes... sometimes I just can't help myself. I've always been a pretty reserved and self-contained person for the most part, and I just want to be left alone 90% of the time to do my thing. Apparently, that's a lot to ask, because every now and then, somebody comes and invades my personal space with their protruding belly, bad breath, and self-aggrandizement, and then I find it really hard to resist my inclination to fuck with them. I know, I know, it's wrong of me to do that, but I'm human, damnit, and something good was cooking in the kitchen. What's the harm in dipping a spoon into this self-important concoction of body odor and bravado?
GM: Any woman, huh? Tell ya what, Busbeard, I just got paid, and you seem really confident in the power of your, ahhhhh, pheromones, so... how about a wager.
I laid out the terms of my devil's bargain. With a wager of 100 dollars, I would pick a lady on the bus at the next break. Busbeard would then have to seduce her. He MUST "present" his pheromones to her, naturally. If he recovered her phone number, or anything in excess thereof, like a kiss or a consensual toilet stall consummation, it would suffice to meet my criteria and loose my grasp from the freshly printed Franklin in my wallet. He agreed enthusiastically to my terms, insisting I was going to loose and he was going to get his dick sucked in a Greyhound portajohn "blumpkin style".
We rode along in silence for the next hour or so. The sun was high in the sky when we made our next stop at some gas station in Utah, and everyone filed off the bus to stretch their legs and get their snacks. I wandered around, huffing down my smoke, chatting it up with people and making friends, seeing just who they were, asking them questions - where they were going, who they were going there with. I got to talking with one guy and his girlfriend.
The guy, who we will call Sarge, was built like a brick shithouse and was a former infantry man who served 2 tours of duty in the middle east. He was traveling with his wife, a young and pretty little thing who we will call Alexandra. They were on their way back to the east coast to stay with family. Alexandra's mom was getting old and had asked them to move in to help take care of her. They were on their way out there to steward her aging mother's estate. I remarked that that was awfully kind of them, and sincerely wished them the best on taking care of Alexandra's aging mom. I told them a little bit about myself, as well... that I was effectively living on the road, playing life by ear, and on the way to see a loved one of mine for a bit before the wind blew me somewhere else.
Eventually, the bus driver gave everyone a 5 minute warning before departure, and we all filed on board. I moved back to my seat and waited for Busbeard to arrive. He came back, cradling piles of gas station sandwiches, bags of chips, and a couple of sodas in his massive paws. He sat down beside me with a loud "oof" and offered me a drink, saying that it's the least he could do before he took my money. I took that beverage. It was both cold and delicious.
GM: Well, Busbeard, I've done my rounds, and I've come to a decision.
Busbeard: Who is it? She better be hot. I swear to God, if you make me waste my time on some dried up roastie, I'm gonna be so fucking pissed at you dude.
GM: Why would I do that dude? Naturally, I only want the best for you. No, she's very pretty. You see that girl over there, in the aisle seat? That's the one. Make your move whenever you're ready.
I pointed out Alexandra to him. I already knew this was going to end very poorly. There was no way in Hell that Alexandra would express any interest in this disgusting lardass whatsoever when she had a stable and solid man like Sarge, and Sarge wasn't about to take guff from anyone. Add on to it that Sarge was easily the size of, if not bigger than, the prodigious Busbeard himself. Sarge was also trained to kill and hardened by years of combat in the graveyard of empires. I can fight - I've fought a lot - and I would not want to square up against him under any circumstances. Busbeard was going to get the snot beat out of him and pay me 100 dollars for that privilege.
The bus took off and I listened to the disgusting sounds of Busbeard inhaling the equivalent of 5 pounds of gas station food. I was only halfway through my soda, when Busbeard emitted a satisfied belch that rumbled the seats, and the feeding frenzy had ended in an effervesence of curdling bile and preservatives just as fast as it had begun. He then started to pump himself up for the task at hand. He started to sweat with excitement and latent cardiac arrest as he prepared his pheromonal aura about himself, and then with a gruff, alright, let's do this, he stood up from his seat and waddled down the aisle, his greasy belly bumping into everybody who had chosen an aisle seat.
He approached Alexandra. They were near the front end of the bus, and so I couldn't hear a word that they were saying. I watched Busbeard as he extended an arm and held on to the overhead luggage rack, exposing the damp miasma of corn-syrup infused armpit sweat to his unsuspecting victim. His pheromones were beginning to work their magic over the unsuspecting Alexandra who would soon be enraptured by its juicy spell. I waited, leaning forward intently, when a loud shout broke the silence.
Sarge: BACK THE FUCK UP.
Alexandra started to shout, too, yelling "get the fuck away from me!"
The driver turned back and yelled for everyone to sit down and shut the hell up or he would pull the bus over.
Sarge: Please do! I'm gonna beat this fucking lardass into the pavement! Saying shit like that to my wife? Who the fuck do you think you are?
The bus driver repeated his warning, and Busbeard began to shout his protests, insisting upon his innocence.
Busbeard: B-but, I was put up to it! It was that guy, in the back seat! He said---
He pointed back at me. I yelled back, I don't fucking know that guy.
The bus driver meant his threat, and pulled the bus over. We were on a long and empty stretch on the I-15 somewhere in rural Utah. The last town I had seen was about 20 miles back. It was late spring, and it was getting hot outside that afternoon. The bus driver got out of his seat, walked up to Busbeard, and told him to get the Hell off of his bus. Busbeard kept protesting, when Sarge moved past his wife, and started forcing Busbeard towards the front door.
I've heard the threat of getting kicked off maybe a thousand times on a Greyhound, but I had never seen it play out before. Busbeard was thrown off the bus. Sarge did not join him outside and pummel him into the asphalt, regrettably, as I would have loved to have watched it. Busbeard kept pleading with the bus driver as the driver shut the door on him, sealing him out on the shoulder of a lonely stretch of highway. I breathed a sigh of relief, and stretched out my legs. It was another 15 miles before we saw signs of civilization. A part of me felt bad for Busbeard, but the other part of me said, "if I can walk 20 miles in a day with 60 lbs of shit on my back, he can do an unencumbered 15 and be fine."
The ride continued on in sweet, reclined silence for me until we reached Denver, werein there was another changeover, and this bus was much, much more desolate. The rest of the Greyhound voyage passed without incident, and I spent my time flirting with my lady love and training some Pokemons. At long last, I finally arrived in Wisconsin. She came to pick me up at the bus station, and when we approached each other, we made out like long lost lovers for a good 5 minutes before we finally caught our breath enough to say hello. I got in her car, and spent maybe a week or so with her, before it was time to take my leave. I couldn't live there forever, and so, as fast as I had drifted into her life, once again, it was time for me to disappear. We said goodbye, and she dropped me off at a lonely interstate overpass on the edge of town. I put my thumb out to catch a ride to Anywhere But Here USA.
I planned my next move, and I figured that there were some friends of hers and mine that lived not too far away in the Dakotas, and maybe I would pay them a visit next. I was in the neighborhood, and figured that I might as well say hello. I reached out to them online, and then made my way west again. They were excited for me to come see them. It was only a day into the voyage when I received a message from Janet. It said, "wait for me, I'm catching up." She had packed her backpack again, and was coming after me, hot on my tail. I told her we could meet up at our mutual friend's house.
I dialed ahead to our friends, who we shall call Sarah and Queenie. Sarah used to travel together with Janet for many months before she stabilized, and then settled down. Queenie was one of my friends from North Carolina. He was a loveable chucklefuck of a drifter, missing a few teeth, wore a skirt, and spoke in the most haggard voice you could imagine. Still... he insisted on being called Queenie. He had settled down with Sarah after they hooked up, and they were living at Sarah's house. He was on thin ice there, however, and she was threatening to kick him out.
I arrived at Sarah's and Queenie's, and spent the next few days waiting for Janet to come up on my heels. During that time, Queenie and I played a lot of Magic (he had just gotten into it), and I remembered the dice that my friend in California had given me that were laying unusued in my backpack. I asked him if he had ever played tabletop RPG's before, to which he answered no. I told him that, maybe next time I see him and I'm in a better spot, we could run a game. Eventually Janet caught up, and we prepared to leave Sarah's for good towards our own new horizons. Queenie, however, had finally broken through the thin ice upon which he skated, and was getting thrown out. On the day of our departure, we asked him if he wanted to join us in our travels so he wouldn't have to go it alone.
Thus we began from Sarah's house out into the unknown once again, a cheerful trio, and true to my word, I began to teach not only Queenie, but Janet as well, the joys of tabletop RPGs.
As I'm sure you can surmise, dear friends, that this is not the end of our story, but only the beginning of another chapter. Is Busbeard still alive? What does the future hold for Ramtide's love life? How do a gaggle of vagabond drifters play tabetop games without a table? Some of these questions will be answered, my dear friends, in our next installment of TAAAAAALES FROM THE TABLETOP.
A shoutout to my lovely patrons, Tatoferret and Sillibits. You guys are wonderful. Thank you for believing in the dream.

"Kirk! Don't stop shooting!" said Marcus.
The beasts ran through the western town and we emptied our Colt revolvers and Winchester repeaters into the square. I hid behind cover as the arrows and bullets flew over my head.
As I prepared to make a stand against the evil coming upon us, I flash back on how this all started.
My name is Kirk "Waya" Walker.
I am Half Cherokee and Half White. I grew up in the Mountains of North Carolina, mainly on the reservation.
I am a descendant of a long line of warriors in my tribe. As members of this great nation, we uphold our warrior spirit serving in the armed forces. My Great Grandfather, was a Marine Windtalker. My Grandfather was Army, 101st Airborne, and My Father served with Pathfinders. I myself did two tours in some non-disclosed locations with Marine Raiders.
From a young age, hunting and shooting has been taught with extreme discipline to those in tribe of warrior descent. Most of us, however, end up working a cop gig with reservation police, security at the casino, or service industry activities.
As a proclaimed marksman and revolver expert, I scored a job at the local western amusement park with my best friend and warrior brother, Marcus.
The park off the reservation was located on the side of a mountain in the smokies near a quiet little tourist town. Families would dress up as Cowboys and "Indians" and tour the park riding rides, eating, and having fun. The park had a small western town, a tribal themed land, and a roller coaster built on the side of the mountain. It was only accessible to the guests by skylift or a small train that went up the steep slope to the top.
I had gone to the park as child and had many fond memories. My job was the attraction I had loved the most, gun-fighting.
Ever since the park opened back in the sixties there have been shows in the town square every 90 mins. Actors have scripted shootouts in the streets armed with blank ammunition. The kid's go crazy for it as they stand on the edge of the street and watch a bank robbery get botched, a showdown, or a new Marshall clean up the streets.
As I begun working there, I was full of enthusiasm and people enjoyed my performances in the showdowns. The other members of the staff started calling me "Kirk the Quick" and my Cherokee brethren called me "The Wolf" as that is the translation for my middle name, Waya.
The other actors were cool. Three other brothers of my tribe, Frank Dawson, and the Wilson brothers, Jake and Paul, both identical twins. Mark Sampson was the oldest of the group. John Humbert and Bill Galloway, two best friends that came from Texas to enjoy the mountains. Last we had a kid named Tommy who was looking for a job while on summer break from UNC Asheville.
There were scripts written where I was good, bad, killed, and even one where I got to be the Marshall. I was having a blast. Even though the depiction of my heritage could appear insulting, the owners of the park seemed very respectful.
Until, the incident... The day before the park closed for good.
I woke up in my cabin and stepped on the porch for my morning cigarette. Normally, a 10-15 minute process because I smoke American Spirits (Don't judge me, heathens.). I looked out as the fog draped the mountains and slowly scanned the yard enjoying the peace.
Then, I saw my Grandfather standing in the yard.
He was staring at me in full tribal gear with war paint on his face. As a Veteran of what the government calls "The Korean Conflict", I knew him to boast warrior spirit. His headdress with a screaming eagle painted on it.
I approached him. "Good morning, Grandfather. I did not hear you arrive... Would you like to come inside?"
His stare grew more angered.
"My grandson, The Wolf. Your mettle and those you share combat with will be tested this day. Forty years ago, Men from across the ocean settled these lands and interrupted prosperity. Today, is the rising day of a great chief who rests the land they disturb. If you return, we shall celebrate with a great feast. Go to war and defend our nation once more."
He held up his hand to me, closed his eyes, turned around, and retreated to the forest.
My Grandfather was a little kooky in his age, but he never did anything like this to me before.
I went back inside and called my dad to no answer. I had to get to work, so I sent him a long text and got ready. As I pulled up to work, I received a reply from my dad.
"I will see you, tonight. May the spirits guide us to victory."
I was confused. But I had no time. I had to check my gear and suit up for the first show. I was thankful I had no lines in the first act.
I walked into the dressing room and suited up. Then came the fun.
As I did back to back shows, strange things started happening in the park.
The skylift broke down and the train got stuck at the bottom of the mountain. We had to bring guests that wanted to leave down the employee entrance road by shuttle. The two park restaurants lost power and we couldn't serve food. Every now and the a strange feedback came on the park speakers. Almost like a panting animal was on the mic. People began leaving earlier then usual.
As the final show of the day came around, I checked the ammo that Marcus loaded for me. I ran up to the second floor of the saloon. My guns felt a little heavier than normal
My role in this show was to be shot off the roof by the Marshall and land in the hay below. I am to shoot at Marcus, play dead and fall safely to a mattress pile disguised by the hay. I was to wait for the first gunshot to be my queue and slam open the shutters, coming out blazing.
I had done this a million times. Nothing to freak out about.
The first gunshot went off. It was followed by two more shots and screams. Instead of slamming the shutters open, I peaked through the crack.
It was chaos.
The streets were being evacuated and an ensuing gunfight began with the actors and a few members of the audience. Screeching noises came from their mouths, and they had glowing red eyes. They were armed with revolvers and bows.
I scanned the street and saw Tommy struggling in the action across the street. I watched in horror as a steel arrow pierced his skull followed by three more arrows that pinned his torso to the wall of the general store. His lifeless body crucified to an amusement park gift shop.
"The battle is beginning, Grandson." said a voice from behind me.
I turned in fear to discover my Grandfather behind me. He stared into my eyes.
"The chief has raised his warriors in revenge and hate. Honor our family and clean our names. GO AND FIGHT!!!" he screamed.
I looked to the window. Marcus was shooting at the possessed warriors. With real ammo. I then realized why my guns were heavier.
"KIRK!! GET OUT HERE!!" shouted Marcus.
I emerged from the window leaving my grandfather behind. I forward rolled off the roof into the hay and emerged with my weapons drawn. I fired 4 shots at the possessed and got 3 of them. As they fell their bodies became ash.
8 rounds left till reload.
As a revolver junkie, counting rounds is second nature to me.
I ran across the street to Marcus. 3 more rounds for 3 more of them.
5 bullets to go.
I ducked into cover with him. Marcus turned to me.
"Reload now, brother. This is going to get intense and we're in for it."
"What the..." was all I could manage to get out when I saw my father emerge with men from the rez.
"HOLD THIS LINE!!" my father shouted. He threw a tomahawk at one of the demonic warriors. I looked across to the line of cover that had been formed at our end of the square and noticed we were protecting to exit to the park.
Mark quickly approached my father with Bill, John, and Frank closely behind.
"Mike, let me leave you Marcus and the twins. Your guardians and them can defend the exit. We can push forward and take out the Chief."
"They must not be allowed to leave. I will grant your request, Mr. Sampson. Charge the Tribal section of the park and send this evil tribes' chief straight to hell. Kirk. Go with them now."
I know war. I know fighting. I can instantly enter that state of mind without reason. I was questioning in the back of my mind what was going on until it became clear to me.
"They died here, didn't they?" I asked my father.
He looked down with tears in his eyes.
"Yes." he softly answered.
My Grandfather told me of a battle that took place in the mountains between a tribe and the U.S. Army a long time ago. My Cherokee and Creek ancestors were forced out of the lands to Oklahoma. The tribe he told of, the Oconostota, began to walk the trail. After the loss of a few children and elders, the warriors became filled with hate and revenge.
They performed a power ritual and began massacring the soldiers escorting them to their fate. After much fighting and killing, they returned to the mountains, consumed by evil. They Army returned with three gatling guns and a battalion of 200 men. They cut down every last one of them. Before the Chief died, he placed a hex on the fallen and swore he would return to avenge his people.
I snapped to and began to posse up with the boys. I reloaded back to 12 rounds. I holstered my colts and picked up a pump action shotgun. I grabbed a bandolier of shells and waited for a signal to move.
A strange mist rolled in from the "Indian" side of the park.
Then we heard the barking... The growling...
My father stood still.
"The beasts are here. PREPARE YOURSELVES!!!" he shouted.
Suddenly the barking got louder and and the shadows of dogs began approaching fast.
I waited till the first dog was in front of my muzzle. The hell-hound emerged from the mist with fangs deployed. I squeezed the trigger immediately and began pumping them out till empty.
I ducked back into cover to see Bill get jumped by one of the beasts. It scratched him up and disarmed him. I reloaded as fast as I could but two more jumped on him and began tearing him apart. The first demon dog began ripping his throat out as they others tore his limbs off.
I pumped the shotgun and fired two shots. The spread killed the dogs and mercy killed Bill. The best I could do for him to stop the pain and suffering.
I looked up to see John filled with tears in his eyes. He nodded to me and picked up Bill's machete. In his other hand he had a stick of Dynamite. He quickly taped it to the machete and lit the fuse.
He picked up a tomahawk in his other and ran in to the mist hacking and slashing the enemies. We seemed to understand his goal and began firing to clear him a path up the square.
"COME GET A PIECE OF TEXAS, YOU BASTARDS!!!!!" he shouted.
All the beasts and enemies ran after him as he disappeared in the mist. He let out the loudest hollar, I've ever heard. Then boom went the dynamite.
The explosion ceased the fight and cleared a path through the haunted mist.
"Now is our chance! Mark! Frank! Kirk! CHARGE!!!!" my father shouted.
I dropped my empty shotgun to the ground. I drew both colts and followed mark along his left side while frank ran to his right. We shot our way into the Indian land.
The Chief of the tribe stood in front of a large campfire. His face demonic and evil.
"The white devil blood flows in your veins!! You will all pay for the disgrace and pain we endured!!" he shouted.
We aimed our weapons at him. He was then struck by an arrow in the chest. I felt it pass by head from behind. I turned around to see my grandfather with his bow drawn.
He approached the Demon Chief and spoke to him in our native tongue. The conversation was quick.
My Grandfather picked up a heavy rock and crushed his head with it. He turned to us.
"You must all go. Right now. These beasts must not be allowed to leave the mountain. The curse will be lifted after the final wave attempts to leave. Go now! Your father needs help!"
Mark turned to us.
I served with grandfather in the war. We will hold them off together. You two get back to the line and save the world!"
Frank and I ran for it to the exit and Dove behind the cover rejoining the line.
"Final Wave is coming, Dad." I said to him reloading.
"Son, the final wave is a never ending demonic battalion. You were supposed to kill the Chief and seal off the portal. Only someone from our bloodline can do it!"
Then we heard the clasp of a strange noise. The smokey mountain mist cleared.
Mark emerged from the Mist. He was upset and a little injured. He embraced my father.
I looked to Mark.
"Why are you walking? Where is my grandfather?" I asked.
My father turned to me
"Your grandfather sealed them away. They will come back, but not for a long, long time. He sacrificed himself with his noble blood. Now we must leave this wretched place and celebrate our fallen as warrior customs have foretold."
"I need a bottle of Wild Turkey. Let's celebrate this victory and your crazy ass grandpa."
The owners of the park went bankrupt and it is now deserted. There was an attempt recently to revive the park but it fell through. Thank God...
I left the Rez and moved to the city. I will never go back at this point. I finally found a nice office job after using my GI Bill to get my degree.
I have to say... I am pretty proud to have been a western gunfighter...