Mason was born to Richard and Deanne Wyatt in Nevada in 1969. Richard was killed in Vietnam when Mason was less than one year old. His mother remarried quickly, having little means to raise a child alone. Her second husband, Stanley, was wealthy, but distant. He had made his money in casinos and even owned one on the Vegas strip. They didn’t want for shelter or food, but the house was not warm. Deanne tried to make it a home and Mason’s memories of her are some of his fondest, but that is all he has: memories. Deanna died when he was six after a brief battle with cancer. He was left alone with Stanley and his huge house.


Stanley worked long hours and the various business associates, maids and butlers saw to it Mason was fed and educated. Mason was smart but held little motivation after his mother’s death. He felt haunted by a sense of doom... as if the other shoe was always about to fall.


Stanley and he were worlds apart by the time he was a teenager. They barely spoke because neither knew what to say to the other. After years of desperately trying to win the man’s affection and approval, Mason finally gave up. So, they’d sit at the table in awkward silence night after night until Mason went away to college. He was accepted into the University of New Orleans and started their drama program.


He discovered a lot in college, not all of it academic. He found friends, drinking and that he liked being the center of attention. He found an easy role in the funny, indifferent life of the party when all he really ever wanted was to be accepted. He became popular and yet, still not happy. At the end of his freshman year, Stanley sent him a strongly worded letter noting if his grades did not improve, he would not continue to pay for his college. For Mason, he was just happy he finally got the man’s attention.


By his junior year, Stanley had cut him off so he dropped out and wandered around New Orleans. He fell in with a group who lived in an old plantation manor owned by a strange but compelling occultist. They called him Nico. The guy was always going on about the bigger picture and how this was just a plastic layer to the broader worlds around us. Mason liked Nico and actually thought maybe the guy was on to something, but Nico had his favorites. Mason wasn’t one of them quickly enough, so he moved on. All he wanted was approval. Someone to notice him. It was easy enough to leave so when the word ‘cult’ was tossed around, he ignored it.


He tried his hand at local theatre, but he was only ever given secondary roles, never the lead. He hated feeling not good enough. He then went to bartending school but dropped out when he realized he was drinking more than he was pouring.


He would occasionally write Stanley letters but rarely got a reply - just a birthday card or a Christmas card merely signed ‘Stanley’. Never a message, but always there would be a check. Sometimes a thousand. Sometimes a little more. It certainly helped when he was in between jobs, which was often. Over the next decade, he tried sixteen different career paths and never loved a single one.


In 2002, Captain Trips began to take its toll. It was only then that Stanley reached out and it was only after the man’s death. He got a call from a lawyer telling him Stanley had died and that Mason had inherited his stepfathers estate, mansion and its contents. While everyone else was dying, he was heading back to Vegas to embrace his new life of wealth - oh and to properly bury Stanley, of course.


The day the funeral was the last ‘normal’ day. After that, people kept dropping like flies and soon, he found himself alone in a huge house filled with stuff he really did not want.


That was when the dreams came. One was of an old woman asking him to make the pilgrimage to Boulder, Co. She promised warm baked bread and salvation.


The other dream was of a smiling gentleman right here in Vegas. He asked him to stay and come on down to the strip where he was welcome anytime. After all, he owned a casino now and this man, Flagg, said he wanted bright, smart people in his city. It was not the flattery that did it, but rather how Flagg seemed to instinctively understand Mason just wanted to belong. Flagg was nice, welcoming, and let him move freely between the strip and his old house which seems less inviting by the day. As of late, he’s been hanging out on the strip, embracing his job as ‘organizer’ - of what, he wasn’t sure, but Flagg seemed happy, so he wasn’t questioning it yet.