The masked man enters the empty and colorless town at mid day. The desert heat fades every living thing into the shadows and decaying recesses.
He walks past the “Do Not Enter” sign and into the ghost town of Rhyolite.
Once bustling with over 10,000 people living here in the early 1900’s, now all that remains are cinder block walls that rise into the cloudless skies and faded signs for the haunted ghosts that still reside.
The masked man stumbles across a lone jackrabbit, it’s tall ears sensing his presence. The creature does not amble away but holds it’s ground as the man passes.
The desert makes every thing that survives tougher, harder….selfish.
Broken glass and old tin cans litter the grounds, remnants of the many saloons and general stores. A cement wall from a bank, an old train station and a schoolhouse are still visible.
Mother nature is slowly reclaiming this place, all eventually going back to ashes and rock.
The masked man finds an old chair in an empty room, the ripped covers flapping in the faint breeze. It calls to him, invites the man to rest his weary bones for eternity. 
“I shall have revenges on you both
That all the world shall
I will do such things
What they are yet I know not
but they shall be,…
The terrors of the Earth.”

Wench, bring my ale, what say you?

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