Fred Smith carried two gold filled satchels over his shoulder as he exited his office. His tailored suit and custom boots were signs he hung on his portly body to let the world know just how much money he had.

As he loaded the day’s profits onto his armored stage coach and reached up for a hand from his driver, the sound of hooves froze him in place.

A horse darker than night stared at Fred with glowing red eyes. Blood-slick bones protruded from ghastly wounds, and a cloud of flies swarmed about. The hooves were fixed with red hot shoes that showed no signs of cooling and scorched prints into the ground with every step.

Atop the horse there sat a pale man clothed in darkness. Black leather chaps and vest covered obsidian dyed denim clothing. Next to a gleaming pentagram badge, there was a small hole and a streak of blood. The man reached to his hip and drew a black gun engraved with faintly lit red runes.

“Come, Fred,” he said with a thousand voices as he pointed the gun, “it’s time to pay your debts.”