soaring mustangs

The battle had arrived. Ghost took his fighting stance. This was the latest last battle. The masked man took his spot on his horse. Across the sand battleground, a woman. On the opposite side, a hot air ballon. Around them - wilderness. 

The masked man was the guardian of this kingdom. Severe agoraphobia kept him in the caves, despite his immense powers. On the back of his masked horse, he was undefeated in battle. Cut from the ties of society, he dedicated himself to the craft. The blood of the intruder nurished his heart. 

Ghost was taking a retirement hot air ballon trip around the world. A former accountant, he had found himself locked in death combat with a bronze age warrior. Clearly, immortal. The situation offered little chance of success. His companion Debra appeared to be the prize, though he suspected it was a meal more than a gift. 

The horse charged and his nostrils flamed. Ghost stepped to the side as the animal passed. Unexpected aptitude. The horse turned and obscured the sun. Ghost sometimes liked to go to bed at dusk, and he reflected on this. The masked man did not look inward, and whipped the horse. 

Ghost swung a large rock in the direction of the orange. The ground shook and there was a gasp. Whether the horse had died of heart failure or the rock also applied to the masked man. Blood was covering the beach, and Ghost fainted. 

Debra brushed the sand from her blouse, took a last, wistful look at the now putrefying horse, and stepped into the hot-air balloon.