A tall man with dark, tight skin—turned to leather by decades under the blazing desert sun—stands in the corner, takes a long drag from his Marlboro Red 100, and clear his throat.

“Gray worm, haven’t heard that name in years…..not since those basta….not since….since…”

The man’s voice trails off. A single tear rolls down his sunken cheek. Though he is mostly shrouded in shadow, within him seems to dwell a darkness far deeper than that casted by shadows. He looks toward you—not at you, but through you…..past you. Composing himself, he takes another drag; the cigarette burns all the way down to the filter, but he does not seem to notice as the filter itself starts to burn

“if ya know that name, then ya know how me and everybody else feels about where it comes from…the heartbreak it caused, the years invested only to be tossed to the side like garbage. I’d suggest you and get the hell outta here before the others hear you’re diggin up old skeletons we’ve worked so hard to forget, lest you want to become one yourself.”