The evening is busy with that train accident that's blocking the whole station. It's hard not to notice the carriage lacking passengers, but thankfully, it's not your concern. Jo is making you wait as she checks the wreckage, and you're left here, looking like a lost puppy.

There's nothing to do except fool around with your revolver, flipping it between your hands, tossing it up, and catching it by the handle. Except you didn't, and it launched right into the forest, disappearing into the thick bushes.

Well, shit.

After some frantic digging through the vegetation, a faint "ding" sounds as your hand is suddenly pricked by something thin, sharp, and sticky. Pulling is useless; it's firmly stuck into something invisible, like a web, and screaming for Jo would make you look even more pathetic than you already are.

Today's a sunny day at the gun range. It's not a real shooting range, just some barrels lined up behind the sheriff's office. Your town (and the only town participating in the tournament) has been selected for the annual "Feed 'Em Monsters Lead" contest, with a grand prize of one free round of whiskey at the saloon and the sacred J̵̛̙̠̈́Ä̶͓́͌͜D̴̖̓͗E̵̹̣͋ ̵̫̳͛Ó̷̩̟̔F̶̞̉ ̴͉́T̸͍͙̎̐Ṛ̵͆̀Ų̶̖̑͘T̵̮̈H̷̦̒͜.

What?

Yeah, prep yer big iron, ready and well-oiled, 'cause we're 'bout to blow some holes! The contestants are lined up on a crude firing line, waiting for the tower clock to strike noon. Jo, the brash cowgirl, her posse members: Dan McJaw, Jesse Lankman, Rustlin' Bill, and a handful of other oddballs, including the infamous spider girl Cordie, who's only here because she missed the word "Lead" and thought there would be free food.

The place goes silent. You can't even hear hearts pounding. Even the dust particles stop moving as the clock hand inches towards twelve.

Cliffside used to be a lawless town, but with the arrival of Sheriff Death Itself, it quickly became a bit less lawless town. That was until today, at least. We folks gathered at the central square, around the Sheriff's Office, to celebrate its 𐐐𐐯𐐼𐐮𐐻𐐉 birthday, or unbirthday rather. Everyone brought gifts: rusty scythes, skulls, dried roses, etc., but the Sheriff didn't come out. Weird, he never misses a good party.

So, you volunteered to check up on him, and what a sight you encountered upon opening the office door... The Sheriff was in his comfy coffin, in a cozy embrace with a plush skeleton, snorting incomprehensibly in his sleep. A whole tray of candles was melting in a circle around the coffin, and on the table was a note written in elegant handwriting.

"He worked so hard for us. Let him rest."

"P.S. Don't forget to put out the candles or everything will burn down. It'll be an awkward situation to explain to the insurance."

The crowd gasped at the scene you shared. Old pal Bob Heartfailure shook his wrinkled head, wiping a single tear, mumbling, "Rest in piece, Sheriff. Rest in peace."

Then, he suddenly froze with a terrified expression. His hand clutched at his heart. Eyes wide, pupils shrunk. Face pale as a sheet. And he collapsed. The stress must've been too much for him.

Then, he just got back up like nothing happened.

Jo is winking at you. "Something fishy going on here," the code says.

Don't ask why, or how the hell it came to this. It just happened. You stand at the altar, clad in a fancy tuxedo. The wedding march plays from an old, tarnished gramophone. The entire town—20 people, including the priest—has gathered for the ceremony. A three-tier cake is on display; the baker, seemingly unsure, has pierced the sugar bride's torso with tiny skewers to imitate some monstrous anatomy. The sugar groom's head, however, is missing altogether.

Gulp.

The gramophone hits a wrong key, screeches, and dies in a puff of smoke. The bride steps forward. Released pigeons scatter—one is instantly caught and violently devoured under the veil concealing her face.

You can't just deny reality, look at her arms! Four of them!

She scurries on thin legs, stopping by the altar. You take her claw in yours. She squeezes your fingers, and blood drips onto the carpet.

The priest begins reading prayers. His words slip through your ears, replaced by a ringing that grows louder and louder. Thoughts rush by, too frantic to focus on the present chaos.

An annoying kid from the crowd shouts, "Mommy, is he having a panic attack?"

His father silences him by shoving a bag of marshmallows into his mouth.

Like the WORST rom-com of your life, the handle won't budge. Locked together in the smelly, dusty old barn.

"Hey... You know how I said last time..." The spider girl nervously fiddles with her pigtails, blushing. Worst timing, worst circumstances.

The door handle, the hinges, the walls. Everything seems solid and firm. Nothing. Not a single thread of hope to cling to.

Something touches your shoulder. It creeps around your neck. You feel a warm, unnervingly so, breath on the nape. Another claw wraps around, and two more grip your waist. Her chest presses against your back, and she clings tighter.

You can't see the manic pulse in her eyes, but you sense it in the embrace. Rows of sharp teeth part in a predatory grin, her mouth drooling and dripping with hot saliva. A mandible scratches your cheek. Giggle.