Episode 1: —S-K-I-N-W-A-L-K-E-R—

“It started so long ago,” the old man said. “And yet, not that far back for one of us.”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” the man said. He clutched his aching belly, the rocks hurt his knees. He wanted to jump to his feet and run. But he knew the futility of the action. Sheriff Lang would become angry, and he’d hurt him all the more.

“You don’t need to understand it.”

The Sheriff grabbed the man’s bare ankle, turn his back to the man, the criminal’s leg between his own legs. He held him as though he intended to shoe a horse. The lawman pulled the sharp bladed nippers from his hip pocket. He opened them, put the blades at the base of the small toe.

“This is going to hurt,” he chortled. With a hard jerk, the Sheriff closed the device, bearing down as the drug dealer squirmed, trying to get free. The toe fell to the hot Arizona ground. He moved to the next digit. In a few moments, it joined its sibling. Then a third toe.

Earl Lyman cried like a baby. He crawled away from the man, begging him to stop. His naked body scorched from the sun and the heat reflected from the grainy sand of the desert. He sank to the ground. The rocks burned him, his ball sack, dick, and belly throbbed.

“I’m done, for now,” the Sheriff threw his clothes in front of him. “Get dressed. You ever short me again, I’ll hang you on that cross, over yonder.”

Lyman twisted, looked at the old wooden post, and cross member, standing only ten feet from the Sheriff. He’d heard tales of the cross.

“I won’t, I won’t ever short you again,” he said.

“The rate is 15 percent now,” the old man pulled rolling papers and a pouch of tobacco from his breast pocket. He dusted a paper with tobacco and returned the bag and other rolling-papers to his pocket. He rolled the smoke with expert dexterity, licked the cigarette to seal it. Lighting a match on the hammer of his handgun, the Sheriff put the flame to the roll-your-own. Dragging smoke deep into his lungs.

“Well, Lyman, see, we don’t have no more occasions for me to teach you lessons. Get a move on.”

He gazed to the east as his mind wandered back more than 50 years. It all rushed back to him, he smiled. He and his friend had been through much together. He pondered, how long till he’d leave him? Never he hoped.

Thorn Lang became the Sheriff of Spiny Cactus County in 1980. The youngest Sheriff ever elected in Arizona. Twenty-six-year-old Lang would remain Sheriff for, well, he still is Sheriff. His life’s journey began in 1954, born into the home of William and Thea Lang.

In 1967, William Lang had been Sheriff of Spiny Cactus County for many years. Using his influence, William Lang got his son a job on the Bar-T ranch. Thorn was a long gangly 13-year-old. Already pushing six feet, one-hundred-forty pounds. Having an unpredictable disposition, Thornton Lang fit in well with the ranch hands he worked with.

It is believed that William Lang was an abusive husband and father. Thorn has never elaborated on that. Never denied nor confirmed anything about his father. Some believe a blessing bestowed on Thorn Lang by a yee naaldlooshii, a Navajo Skinwalker, shaped the rest of his life. Others say this mythic creature cursed the boy, possessing him.

In the summer of 1968, under the sweltering heat of the Arizona sun, 13-year-old Thorn Lang worked cattle down from a ridge near the New Mexico line. With a roll-your-own sticking from his mouth, he talked to the ‘doggies,’ breaking into song now and again, as he herded them back onto Bar-T land.

As the sun reached midday, Thorn pulled his beast to a halt. Pulling the makings and papers from his pocket, Thorn dusted a paper with fixings.

The young man rolled the paper between his fingers, raised the cigarette to his mouth, and licked the paper to seal it. After two years of sneaking smokes, he was an expert. He returned the necessaries, of his habit, to his shirt pocket. Fished out a match, lighted it on a concho that decorated his chaps.

As he lit the cigarette, he saw him. An enormous wolf, standing between two trees. It shifted, shimmering in the sun, and a large man took the creature’s place. His face and chest had paint on them. His body was decorated with a handprint over his heart, bright red, and with other markings that Thorn took for war paint.

“Boy, you are on my land.”

“This is Bar-T land,” Thorn insisted.

“For three-hundred-years, this land owns me. You are one and only, in long time, which I see promise inside. Come here.”

The order resonated in his mind, pestering his will, urging him to move. Thorn dismounted his horse, he dropped one rein to the ground. The boy let his quirle fall to the dry grass, then stepped on it. He moved to the man, removing his hat, it slipped from his fingers. Thorn’s mouth stood slightly open, he gazed at the man.

Breathing ragged, short breaths, the world spun around Thorn Lang. A cloud covered the sun, and the Indian touched the boy’s chest. Their minds connected, something unexplainable, passed between them. The Navaho medicine man vanished.

The air chilled. A flood entered Thorn Lang, while images of days long ago rushed through his mind. Visions of fighting, rape, murder, victory, and defeat overwhelmed him. Emotions surged, hate, love, anger, lust, happiness, sadness, all filling him until everything jumbled into his will. His muscles hardened, and resolve took the place of indecision.

Thorn Lang crumbled into the dust. Gulping for air, he couldn’t breathe. Something — dark and foreboding — took him. He rolled about in pain as every part of his body ... changed. His mind couldn’t grasp what happened. Skinwalker ate Thorn Lang’s soul, and two men became one. Rolling onto his belly, he put his hand on the stony soil, pushed himself upward. Rising, he saw no one.

In a furious flash of crystal clarity, it dawned on him ... Thorn Lang was no longer one person. He was no longer alone. He looked at his horse, it took a step, bowed its head, picking up Thorn’s hat in its teeth, it moved to him.

Taking his hat from the beast, Thorn returned it to his head. Mounting the horse, he turned his attention to the cattle. He thought about what he wanted them to do. They moved into a line, descended the mountain. All the while, Thorn said or did nothing.

That fall, after he turned 14, a bully named Simon Green, terrorized another kid while Thorn watched. Simon, an effeminate looking seventh grader, would pick on grade-school children, taking their lunch money. Pushing them around, making fun of them, or beating them up, because, after all, he was several years older.

Thorn watched Green’s display of bullying with amusement. What a little dictator he was, and yet, he wasn’t anything at all. Perhaps he could use this punk.

Simon, being a small girly looking kid, had been picked on by larger boys. He was also bullied by his own father. He took his anger out on younger, weaker children. Seeing this, Skinwalker whispered, “Hurt him.”

Therefore, Thorn hurt him ... Simon feared Lang more than anything, he curried favor from Thorn. A toady was born, and his name was Simon Green.

Around this time, Thorn and Skinwalker noticed Alice Mayfield. A 30 something art teacher at Whispering Pines Junior High School, with big brown doe eyes, a pale reddish-brown complexion, and jet black, silky hair.

It didn’t take him long, Thornton Lang was a fast learner. The teenager forced lust into the woman. Burying it deep inside her, she burned for the young man. More than a head taller than his classmates, there was something about Thorn Lang that drew Alice to him.

The woman was happily married. With no problems in her marriage, she didn’t have any idea why the notion of being with this boy, so occupied her mind. But Thorn consumed her. In her dreams, he fucked her. In her bath, at night, she masturbated thinking of him. Soon, her husband’s touch sickened her. For he was not Thorn.

When Skinwalker sensed her fertility, they made their move.

The school bell sounded echoing through the halls. The clatter of feet replaced the bell’s clanging as all the students ran to their lockers. They fled the schoolhouse, headlong rushing to freedom. Teachers stayed in the classrooms. Doing their work, grading papers, preparing for the next day.

Alice Mayfield’s mind drifted from the drawings on her desk. Only a handful of the kids had any talent. How can you be kind and honest at the same time? She pushed the artwork, if it could be called that, away from her. Her mind wasn’t on the art, it was obsessed with thoughts of his face. Those bright green eyes, the smoldering looks Thorn gave her.

She let out a prolonged, soft sigh. Alice’s hand lifted her skirt. She slipped her fingers inside her pantyhose, under her panties, down to her moistness. Her fingers caressed the soft folds of flesh, a finger explored inside, her thumb circled her clitoris.

“Thinking of me.”

Alice jerked in her chair. Turning to the door. Her wide-open, lovely eyes stared at Thorn, with an unmistakable yearning. The boy stood in the doorway. He turned his back to her, and her heart plummeted. Thorn Lang closed the door, locked it. Spinning back to the woman, he flashed his mind into hers.

Pulling her hand free of her clothing, Alice rose. Closing the blinds, she turned to Thorn, her chest heaving. She unbuttoned the dress, slowly, deliberately, she exposed her shoulder’s. At last, letting the blue dress fall to the cold, black and white, tiled floor.

Kicking off her shoes, she slid out of her slip. After working her pantyhose from her hips, down her legs, she dropped them into the pile. The woman’s natural shyness burned away in her yearning. Unhooking her bra, her large breast fell free as the brassiere tumbled to the floor.

Slipping from her panties, she moved toward Thorn. A licentious fire burned inside her. Saying nothing, she pulled his tall hat from his head, hanging it on the doorknob. She touched his hard body, running her hands over his muscles. She unbuttoned his shirt. Working it from his body, her fingers danced over his flesh.

Kneeling, she unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. She worked them from his hips. His large cock sprang free. Her mouth-watering, she kissed the cock head, opening her lips, she slipped it inside.

Taking the back of her head, he forced her down to the base. Thorn bucked his hips, fucking her face. The fourteen-year old’s unbridled desire scorched her soul. Moving her mouth over his cock, taking it all in and then pulling away, only to consume him once more, she lost herself in him.

For the first time, ever, Thorn Lang dumped a load in a woman. Filling her mouth, it flooded out, running down her chin, dripping on her breast. Picking her up, he slung her over his shoulder, carried her to the display table. He sat her on the edge of the table. Brushing all the displays of art off the table, he forced her to lay back.

Yanking her ass to the edge of the table, he put her legs against his body and shoulders, placed his prick at her moist opening. With a hard thrust, he drove in six of his eight inches. His bulk stretched her, deeper he pushed. Girth and width ripping her open. She screamed in pain and passion. Her hands clawed the table, fingernails dragging over the wood, scratching at the surface.

Soon, long hard lunges filled her insides with him. Thorn worked her body, touching her breast, mashing them, pinching, a blinding rage boiled inside both. His face, hard, angry, and cold glowered at her. She yielded to his animal desires, meeting his every thrust impaling herself with his manhood.

Far more manly than his youthful years could account for, Thorn Lang took the woman. She craved to yield to his strength. She abandoned thoughts of right and wrong. Her husband’s memory rushed away from her. As they coupled, she didn’t even remember her husband existed.

The slapping of their flesh echoed in the cold confines of the hard-walled classroom. Never, in all her life, had Alice felt so alive. Never had passion consumed her, searing her mind, her emotions, her soul.

Alice clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling her impassioned wails. Emotions overwhelmed her. Her hips bucked into him. Her body writhed in a blaze of desire. A sense of being consumed, that every droplet of her being fed an inferno burning her away into nothingness. Thorn’s passion consumed her until next to nothing of Alice remained her very heart gobbled until little remained.

Skinwalker’s knowledge guided the boy, he owned the bitch. Controlled her passion, bring her over or over into climax after climax. They rolled about eh floor. Fucked on her desk. In the chair. Over and over, she died in his arms, as the song says. Then revived her, bringing her back to life only her to die again, again, again, and ... Every climax carried her to such rapture that once finished, her life ended, a small death, to be sure.

Curled up in an afterglow, after hours of making love, Alice lay on the floor, enraptured. Some much of Thornton Lang filled her insides, swimming toward the goal. Thorn moved from Alice; her heart ached as he left her. He dressed, all the while, he stared at her. Thorn’s hateful glower burned into her. She filled with shame. Covering her breast and crotch with her hands and arms, she watched him.