SHITHAWK by Owen Croft , introduction to the book

This ain’t your grandpappy’s Western. SHITHAWK is a rancid, blood-soaked fever dream of the real 1878 frontier—the one the postcards burned and the songs forgot. No white-hat heroes, no virtuous widows, no noble last words under a blood-red sunset. Just dust, dysentery, and the kind of miracles that leave you bleeding, laughing, and questioning every life choice that brought you here. Follow Silas “Shithawk” McGraw: one-eyed, syphilitic ex-undertaker with a parasitic twin named Little Ezekiel sprouting from his shoulder like a filthy, talking tumor that rhymes dirtier than a dockside whore on payday. He’s dragging a crumpled map to “miracle gold” that supposedly cures everything—pox, bullet holes, broken souls, and the mutiny brewing in his own crotch. Along for the ride: Dolores “Leadheart” Ramirez, a Mexican prostitute so full of lead she pisses bullets and laughs harder when she’s bleeding than when she’s coming; Clarence “Two Mutts” Whitaker, a white conman in redface whose spirit-animal coyote (he calls it Grandfather) humps saddlebags and shits on clean shirts with philosophical gusto; and a rotating cast of lunatics, cannibals, exploding nuns, and defrocked preachers who fuck rocks and call it exorcism. They’ll ride through dysentery canyons, ghost-town orgies, hallucinogenic mines, and cannibal picnics where the only thing talking to God is the vulture overhead, waiting for the punchline. No redemption. No moral. No mercy. Just the West—cruel, absurd, filthy, and grinning like it already knows how this ends and you’re the joke. Explicit. Depraved. Disgusting. And the funniest goddamn thing you’ll hear all year. If you’ve got the stomach for it, saddle up.   If not, close the feed now.   The vultures are already circling.   Visit https://owencroft.com/ for updates on the release date of SHITHAWK and other books