The only sound in Ratwater this afternoon is that of flies and dry wind.

In this dry, cactus-strewn sector of the world, disagreements are being had more than ever. Trigger fingers have never been more itchy. Everyone in Ratwater is dead or dying except for the guy with the poncho and his strange little friend. They’ve been wandering around for months in search of somewhere to settle down and sell whatever the strange little guy has in his backpack but–as luck would have it–they keep entering civilized areas directly after some kind-of vicious shootout or rampage. These two unfortunate travelers, nomadic as they are, haven’t really had the time or energy to sit down and read the paper. If they did, they would be well-informed regarding the devastating cattle-borne brain illness which has just recently swept the land, sending folk in more densely populated areas into a violent and irrational frenzy. 

Poncho-man refuses to take his poncho off and therefore smells really bad. This naturally upsets the little guy, who’s known by friends to be pretty much the biggest clean-freak in the entire world. To call the subjects “weary" would be a vast understatement – both are losing their patience and respective tempers absent of the mind eating cow sickness. They’ve been wandering around for just way too long–their mouths are dry and their feet are blistered. The camaraderie that once encouraged them to set out together into the wilderness as pals is fading fast. They are some of the only sane people left in this desiccated place but still their path seems to lead them towards a violent, argumentative end. It’s not really clear whether or not they’ll reconcile the friendship they once had but it's definitely looking pretty unlikely. Their anger is quietly but steadily ramping and both find themselves daydreaming about how and when they’ll maybe cannibalize the other. So hungry.