At midnight, I find comfort in a tall glass of whiskey con carne. Afterwards, I grab my pistol, and walk out into the dark. The weather is medium cool. A stiff breeze causes the trees to sway; the frenzy of windblown leaves masks my heavy footsteps upon the dirt. Down the road, I spy a vehicle partially hidden under a willow tree. I walk towards it casually.
A middle-aged husband and wife are sitting in a Chevy pick up, eating fast food. I approach, tapping on the driver’s side window with my gun. The husband jerks with a startle, looks up to see the barrel of a pistol in his eye line, and stiffens. A strand of shredded lettuce, drenched in mayonnaise, dangles off his mouth. His wife screams. Her burger falls to the floorboard. I let this go on for another 30 seconds, then I calmly tell the husband to roll the window down. He complies, trembling.
“What do you want?” he asks.
He is met with silence, the gun directed at his forehead.
The wife’s screaming subsides, replaced by wide nostrils and wide eyes. Her hands shake. Very dramatic.
“Please don’t hurt me…us.” says the husband.
The wife shoots her husband a hard eye, then fixes her gaze upon the lower half of my face, which is all she can see.
Nothing moves.
A deep gurgling sound emanates from my belly, followed by another. I lower the pistol and hunch over, leaning through the open window. A moment passes, everything is still.
I inhale deeply. And I vomit square in the husband’s face. A generous pool of whiskey and meat gathers in his lap. His face twists into a kabuki mask of repulsion and agony. The wife starts screaming again. The husband glances at his screaming wife, his puke soaked pants, and then at me. But I’m already gone.
Down the road, I tuck the pistol into my jeans, and wipe my mouth with a handkerchief. I head down to the convenience store. And I buy more whiskey and ground beef. For tomorrow night.
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