”No more excuses left, except the one to rip off that asshole's face and stretch it clean across the ball of my fist, eyeholes held in place by two fingers. I ain’t the same man I was yesterday.”
Joe pulled up at the abandoned shelter, his flaming motorbike growling to a halt. He checked his watch. Two minutes past three. That bitch ass had to be fast asleep on his piss-stained rag of a mattress in there. He scoured the surrounding area for any signs of life. None to speak of, bar the cricket’s incessant chirping through the stillness of the night. Four days gone and there had been no sign of him. The phone line was dead and most of his fleeting accomplice’s already scattered to the winds. Some were murdered, some got it even worse. The money was of no consequence anymore. Only a yearning for some sweet, lingering death dished out from his own capable hands.
He lowered the kickstand using the heel of his boot and dismounted. The loud crunch of gravel under his foot caused him to freeze. A subtle grimace crawled upon his face. The amount of time spent on that straight, parched never-ending highway rocked his usually impeccable judgement. Attention levels now adjusted back to maximum capacity, the other boot came down on the rough, dusty terrain with a new and concentrated ease. A soft thud still managed to dissipate around his large footprint, though quiet enough not to alert the unsuspecting sleeping fool. Moments like this had to be savoured, not rushed. He could almost hear the grim reaper sharpening his scythe just over his shoulder.
Each step drew him closer to the old, plywood door. The small outhouse almost glowed in the murky gloom, it’s luminous walls displaying various graffiti nametags in large, bold colourful lettering. The sole adjacent window was covered up with patches of newspaper. A possible concealed support structure pressed up behind it. Approaching with caution, a gust of wind caught the long ponytail trailing down his back, blowing it to one side. A few steps away from the entrance and he began the ritual unsheathing of the two-foot steel machete from it’s leather belt pouch.
A transient thought entered his mind. That of the numerous mangled bodies his actions had laid to waste in the past. Countless lives cut short with the same methodical precision he had grown so accustomed to carrying out. Gallons of blood spilt from shredded, spurting arteries. Jellied flesh hanging loose either side of the bastard's gaping wounds. The piercing cries of agony only feeding his torturous thirst for more butchery. But tonight was different. He would savour this beautiful death so long as Miguel’s desperate soul clung on to it's ravaged carcass.
The sullied, pale door stared him right in the face as did both his options. A fast boot to smash his way in, followed by a quick jab into the ribs with his gleaming beauty in hand. Or a quieter, more stealthy entrance. Given the poor lighting, it may have to be the latter, he thought. The only problem being how hard to drive the blade into him. Not so hard as to let him bleed out too fast. It had to be smooth and clinical, as knife slides through butter. Slow and measured. At least a half hour’s fun was warranted after nearly two days pursuit to get here. He took in a deep breath, held it and placed the palm of his hand on the door. It was damn near freezing, though the intense sensation only fuelled even more excitement within.
”You should of called first, stranger.”
Joe jerked his head up, startled by the voice. That voice. The deep, guttural drawl was unmistakable. His eyes met with the barrel of a 12 gauge pointed a few feet from the brim of his hat. Behind it, Miguel grinning down at him, half leaning off the flat surface of the rooftop above. The son-of-a-bitch had me pegged the minute I got here, he thought. Though fear was the last thing on his mind. Only an even deeper contempt for being placed in this awkward predicament.
”Now, now, Mig. You don’t wanna be doing nothing stupid now? You know why I’m here and you sure as hell know who sent me. So let’s just take some time out for a second and both get our bearings back to the way they ought to be.” Joe gritted his teeth in frustration at forgetting his trusty Colt .45, still holstered within an inconspicuous side compartment of his motorbike. Complacency got the better of him at the worst possible time.
Miguel stayed where he was, shotgun trained on him with a burning hate in his dead, cold eyes. ”You don’t need to worry none, Joe. All I wanna do is explain my side of things. You know, like something called the truth? And after that, we’ll see what we'll see.”
Joe remained expressionless as Miguel shifted the direction of the barrel of the shotgun. ”I want you over there and that damn weapon on the floor. Do it now.” Understanding that proceedings had been delaying somewhat, he did as he was asked and threw the blade to one side. It landed with a muffled puff of smoke. As he began inching away, Miguel adjusted himself to jump down to ground level once more, the gun sights never leaving it’s dark, shuffling target.
”Now.” Miguel said, straining to his feet as the words left his mouth. ”Let’s get down to business, shall we?”
(To Be Continued)
