Deadman Grey had aways known his fate in this dust filled world. His father had been sixty-three when he was born, a desiccate-apple head wrapped in a collarless shirt and wool waistcoat. His mother, the target of an old-man's lust, he could only remember the six-petticoats she wore in the furnace of that first summer. She had been sent to a home for disrespectable women soon after Deadman could walk on his own. Educated by taciturn nannies in severe black dresses smothered in floral perfumes, he had grown up watching his progenitor navigate the mansions of death until his father passed in silent senility, his toothless mouth shouting without noise, eyes fixed on the stained canopy above his bed. Deadman had been sixteen when he sold the house, strapped guns to his waist, and rode westward on the best horse he could find. He was eighteen when Death settled in as his constant drinking partner.
Deadman Grey knew his fate in this dust-filled world. His father, a desiccated-apple head wrapped in collarless shirt and wool waistcoat, had reached sixty-three before having a son. His mother, the target of an old-man's lust, remembered for the six petticoats she wore in the furnace of that first summer; interred in a wayward woman's home soon after Deadman could walk. Educated by taciturn nannies in severe black dresses and smothered by floral perfumes, he had endured sixteen-years watching his father navigate the mansions of his death before passing in silent senility, his gaping mouth shouting, eyes fixed on the stained canopy above his bed. Deadman burned the house, strapped sixs-guns to his waist, and rode West on the best horse in the stable. Death sidled in on Deadman's eighteenth birthday and never left his side. Business was brisk.