Buckle rode into the town of Paradise, his battered and bruised mare exhausted from its long journey. He noted the creature's miserable demeanour, but decided that it was an improvement from how it was when he paid for it. He'd combed what he could of the matted fur into non-existence, and fed the thing better than it ever had been by its previous owners. That old bastard four towns over weren't lying when he said "I ain't a horse person, mister".

Leaning forwards, Buckle patted the mare's head tenderly. "We're here Daisy, my girl. Let's get you seen to," he said, cheerily. The horse seemed indifferent to his tone, but that wasn't surprising. 

Dismounting, Buckle cast a few glances at his surroundings. Paradise wasn't much different to any other town this far out in no-man's land. Flimsy wooden structures lined the main road way, on which he now stood, and off in the distance he could see the silhouette of a church spire. There were few light sources coming from the windows of any of the buildings in sight, but this didn't seem strange to him, it was night after all, and he suspected most of the locals were asleep. He spotted a sign not far off, indicating a barn down a side street.

"Come on Daisy, let's get you to bed," he said.

The barn was, like the rest of the town, worse for ware and poorly tended. An old man, with no hair but a full beard of knots and grime, greeted him with a toothless smile. Buckle noted that there were a few horses present, indicating that the town wasn't doing so badly in terms of comers by. The hay seemed of good enough quality, and the meagre sleeping arrangements next to the old man told Buckle the horses were being seen to around the clock. 

"Howdy, you stayin' long in our fine town?" The old man asked gleefully. 

Buckle nodded and smiled. "That'd be an affirmative, old boy. How much for a week?" 

"You hear to see the Preacher?" 

"Yup."

"Then no charge to you," said the old man, scratching his beard feverishly. "Though, I do take donations." 

Buckle nodded, and handed over a dollar bill. "She's an old beaten creature, but she's all I got to my name, so look after her."

The old man snatched the dollar bill, his eyes widened by the sight of it, and then shoved it eagerly into his mangy clothes. "You betcha sir, she'll get the best I can give, I assure you of that, oh yes I do. Names Tim Ranger, by the way."

"Buckle Peterson, a pleasure," replied Buckle, leaning in for a handshake. 

Tim's face scrunched up in deep concentration, as if trying to recall something hidden deep in the tomes of his memory. Buckle grew uneasy at this, and his right hand subconsciously made its way down to his 44. Tim Ranger wouldn't be the first aged adversary wanting revenge for some of Buckle's less savoury exploits. Tim didn't seem bothered though, and started tapping his teeth with a finger whilst clicking his tongue before finally shrugging his shoulders. 

"Think I heard that name, when I lived east," he said. 

"Well whatever you heard, that ain't me you're thinking of," growled Buckle. He hastily pulled another dollar bill, and passed it over to Tim. "This part of the country is full of ex-cons. Last thing I need is someone recognising me and itching to settle an old score, you get?" 

"Safe with me, Mister," said Tim, eagerly grabbing for the dollar with arthritic fingers. Buckle withheld it at the last second, and Tim seemed genuinely pained and confused.

"Let's start again. I'm Bill Furrows, understand?" 

"I understand, Mister Furrows," said Tim with a wink. Buckle handed him the dollar, and then made for the door. 

[center]***[/center]

The church was a sad structure. Nothing Godly about it, as far as Buckle could tell, but then none of them ever were this far out. It was small, and feeble, with a considerable graveyard. Life weren't easy out here, but then it wasn't much better back in the cities. Buckle would know, he tried and failed in those depressing streets of concrete and smoke. There was a light source inside, and he could hear the gentle murmur of people talking. Before he started business, he felt he was entitled to one more moment of alone time.

Seating himself upon one of the more sturdier sections of the graveyard's picket fence, Buckle pulled out his tobacco and smoking paper, and rolled himself a smoke. Striking a match, and bringing fiery life to his little stick of joy, he savoured the sweet fumes with each pull. [i]Zombies, spirits and vampires?[/i] he mused. Looking around the graveyard, he sure didn't see any creatures of the night, and he doubted he would. The crazy old preacher beyond the church's doors was probably just desperate to consolidate and increase his congregation. Churchmen were always trying to get more of something, whether it was wealth or power, and Buckle sensed this was no different. Still, as long as the old bastard paid the promised price, he didn't care.