Hello there. Wow, five months. I do believe that I've become the Reader's Bane. ;) Anyway, thanks for the support, folks! I'm glad to have a good little following, and I hope that I haven't turned y'all off with my massive delays. Hopefully I can break this trend and start updating regularly. And maybe I'll win Powerball.

One last thing to Chef Jet (appropriate name, btw) that's a pretty good idea. I'll have to re-watch the movie, but I loved it, so that'll be a fun little bonus. Also, as far as Spike's wounds go, well, you'll just have to read on and see. As always, ownership of both Spike and Roland, as well as their respective worlds and mythologies, goes to... someone else. Enjoy.

4: Devil-Weed Samba

As he crested the second-to-last hill just fifty yards in front of the dark blob that now looked like some sort of shed, Roland decided to eliminate unnecessary risk by staying there until daybreak. By the look of the sky, it was a half-wise, half-cautious decision, but Cort's ever-present voice removed all doubt. Just as the commala always followed a fair-day, Cort's voice always followed doubt.

You want to stroll into town with nothing but your ears for defense, maggot? If you want to die, I can think of easier ways than that, he growled. Roland agreed, although he wasn't so sure that the shed was as abandoned as he had previously thought.

Between half-hearted gusts of wind, the gunslinger's ears

(Listen hard, maggot! Hearing's only half the battle!)

picked up crumbs of sound. Some were the dried-up crumbs that only the desert could provide. Others had remnants of moisture, promising larger pieces, perhaps even the whole cake.

He realized that he had not only stopped walking, but had also squatted down and slowed his breathing. His body ached with thirst. It was the sort of ache that accompanies a good long day of wrestling your half-dead horse out of a gully, or dragging it for a mile before you realize that it had completed its journey to the clearing at the end of the path long ago.

However, level four khef allowed him to observe without stirring, not even in the depths of his bowels. He couldn't remember whether it was level five or six that promised total control over his internal organs, but he knew it didn't matter now.

His ears had picked up the aural equivalent of a bakery-house.

Sitting on his haunches as he was, his scathingly blue eyes were able to make out the barest outline of a shadow quivering between the slats of the shed. He heard what he assumed to be a very faint sentence, although the only word he could clearly make out was "ever." It might have been "whatever," but it was all the same to the gunslinger. His right hand was gripping sandalwood, just as he was thinking about pulling leather, but he decided to see just how low his reserves were before proceeding.

Quietly popping the cylinder out of place, Roland noticed that he hadn't reloaded since his last encounter. Whenever that might have been he couldn't tell, but small amounts of oxidization at the rim of each spent shell's firing pin said that it was quite a while ago indeed. The weapon's brother told a similar story, aside from two shells' worth of discrepancy.

The good fortune extended to Roland's gunbelt, and the addition of all unspent shells lodged in leather with the ones lodged in steel totaled a sum that suggested a diplomatic approach.

Failing that, a "shoot-first, tell the priest tomorrow" method might have to suffice.

After loading his guns with all four shells, Roland chose the former option. After all, backing words with lead was much safer than doing vice versa. Even so, he thought it best to approach with casual body language and instincts on full alert. People who dwell amongst the dunes often resort to the weed when trouble looms, and out here, that's most likely to happen on a daily basis.

Smelling leads to smoking, smoking leads to chewing. Devil Weed's nothing more than a shortcut to the Clearing

Not that Roland couldn't make that shortcut even shorter. He had four one- way tickets to that fabled clearing, and in a different situation, that number would have been four times more than adequate. However, with this lack of knowledge concerning the enemy, it might prove to be a fatal deficiency.

The last full orb of the sun seemed to set the wooden walls of the shed on fire as he approached it, thereby reducing his ability to see that which dwelt beyond. Passing within three feet of what the gunslinger assumed to be the shed's door, he was nearly convinced that it was abandoned after all.

Roland's instincts suddenly shouted in his mind, thinly disguising themselves with Cort's rough voice. Diplomacy? You make me sick, maggot. Weed may be a shortcut, but trying to fight with words is nothing short of Ka Mai's worst folly, he growled. The gunslinger stopped in his tracks. His instincts yelled at him to turn around, but he resisted them.

"Don't turn around," a voice said, no more than ten feet behind the gunslinger. The voice had the calm of Alain with the subtle joviality of Cuthbert.

Cort laughed bitterly in Roland's mind.

That was fun. Oh, don't worry, Roland is safe. Spike however, well, you'll just have to tune in. Aren't I evil?

Thanks again for reading! -T.J.