Home on the Strange
It’s dry, it’s fuckin’ hot, and only a lunatic or one o’ them folks touched by the Man Jesus would ever want to go out o’ their own free will. O’ course, it’s normally pretty safe if you stay on the roads – aside from the occasional spot o’ banditry, mind you – but I’ve heard stories from some of the Expressmen goin’ through the deserts that there are all manner o’ horrors out there beyond mortal ken. Sinkholes with teeth, packs o’ wild, mutated hounds, mecha gone insane with the heat… and that’s without the braves of the Chakchimura Nation to contend with. They ain’t too bad most of the time, but if you get ‘em on one o’ their holy days… well, you’d better hold on to your hats, because they’re probably out lookin’ fer scalps.
Not everythin’ out there’s bad, though. A great place for a man to find solitude… or to bury a body. Stranger shit, too – had one ol’ fella tell me he came across a talkin’ saguaro once. He was nice enough, he tol’ me. Even called hisself Jim. This ol’ fella, he might well o’ bin pullin’ my leg… but then, you never know.