The desert town of *Last Regret* had two rules: Don’t drink the water, and don’t love the bartender. You broke both. Her name was Viper. Red lips, snake eyes, and a laugh that could curdle uranium. You swore you’d tame her. *Idiot.* Don Tonzo watched from the saloon’s shadows, his Legacy Gold Snapback pulled low. He doesn’t *do* love. He does warnings. The tee clung to his chest like a funeral shroud: *“REMEMBER.”* You bought her diamonds. She bought a grave plot. The night it ended, the sky bled orange. Viper fed you tequila laced with antifreeze. *“Six men,”* she whispered, straddling your chest. *“That’s how many it’ll take to carry your coffin. But *I’m* the one who gets to nail it shut.”* You laughed. Then choked. Tonzo sipped bourbon as your lungs collapsed. *“Should’ve read the shirt, kid.”* --- **THE AFTERMATH** They buried you in a suit she picked out. Cheap polyester. Too tight. The preacher droned about “God’s plan.” Viper wore white. At the wake, Tonzo cornered her. *“Why?”* She flicked ash into your urn. *“Same reason you wear that tee. *Power.*”* He left her a bullet. Unloaded. --- **THE TEE’S CURSE** It surfaced at a pawn shop in Reno. The skull’s cowboy hat tilted mockingly. The sheriff’s badge? Your initials. You bought it. *Irony.* First wash, the water drained black. The *“ONE WOMAN”* text glowed like a dashboard warning. Now, Viper’s face flickers in mirrors. Your coffee tastes like grave dirt. Last night, you woke to six shadows at the foot of your bed. The tag itches: *“EST. 2024. PRE-ORDER YOUR CASKET.”*