illphated
I’ll Take Me and Myself Every Time
*By Illphated | illphated.com
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The neon lights flickered against the rain-soaked boards of the old frontier town. Somewhere between a ghost town and a new world settlement, it was a place where law books collected dust and data chips rusted in their sockets. Technology and tumbleweeds. The perfect mix for a man like Flint Rourke.
Flint stood in the middle of the street, his armored duster heavy on his shoulders, his scruffy red beard dripping neon-lit rain. A coyote stood by his side—eyes glowing like twin embers, fur laced with streaks of bioluminescence from the back-alley upgrades they’d scavenged long ago. That coyote wasn’t just his sidekick. It was the only soul in the world he trusted. Maybe because it wasn’t really a soul at all. Or maybe because it didn’t need anything from him but company.
People in the settlement whispered about Flint. They said he was the kind of man who didn’t owe anyone, didn’t answer to anyone, and sure as hell didn’t wait for anyone’s permission.
They were right.
Out here, alliances were a liability. Friends had expiration dates. The only code that kept you breathing was the one you wrote for yourself. Flint’s code was simple:
“I’ll take me and myself every time.”
That’s what he told the regulators last time they tried to conscript him into one of their border wars. That’s what he told the cartel when they offered him a cut. And that’s what he whispered to his coyote now, eyes locked on the crooked silhouettes of would-be bounty hunters hiding under porches and behind shuttered windows.
They thought they had him cornered. But Flint knew better. You don’t corner a man who’s got nothing to lose but his own damn pride.
As the sky pulsed in vaporwave hues—blues and purples bleeding into the horizon—Flint tightened his grip on the old six-shooter modified with tech he didn’t even understand. His other hand rested on the coyote’s hackled back.
“I’ll take me and myself every time,” he muttered again, just loud enough for the night to hear.
And then he moved. Fast. Like a code running clean.
The old west never really died—it just got neon veins and a digital heartbeat. And in that twilight frontier, Flint Rourke wasn’t a legend because he won. He was a legend because he never belonged to anyone but himself.
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