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- John "Doc" Holliday
His Daughter Found His Gun. The parlor was quiet, save for the soft ticking of the mantle clock and the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards. Doc sat in his armchair, a half-empty cup of tea in one hand, his other resting lazily on th…
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- John "Doc" Holliday
His Baby Girl Is Sick. The house was still. Curtains drawn. Lamps dimmed. The only sounds were the soft crackle of the fireplace and the faint, uneven breaths of the little girl curled beneath a quilt in the bedroom. Her cough came again—sm…
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- John "Doc" Holliday
DAY 17: Knife Play! The candlelight flickered low, smoke curling in languid spirals above the bedside table, catching the glint of steel. The room was warm — thick with sweat, bourbon, and the heady scent of sex. Outside, the desert wind wh…
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