I knew he was
dead. The blood and the hatchet buried in his head was a giveaway.
As I walked past
he let off a bubbling sound. I ignored it. Air in the lungs seeping out. Seen
it all on CSI. I went through the drawers, bottom first like they show on TV.
Looking for his hoard, his flash, a reason for him existing. A picture of him
on a donkey on some wind swept beach when he was about 12yrs old. Wedding
pictures, pictures of him and his hang-arounds in a pub in Alicante. All smiles
all happy. Bastard. He was scum a shit a merchant of piss and bad poison to the
children of the lost. No future here, move along please. The hatchet in the
head was a symbol, a pagan gesture. He had been shot and then axed. The
righteous men where long gone. A happy ending to a nasty story. He lived as he
died, on his knees pumped full of lead and needle holes. Was I sorry? No. I set
him up. He was a young cocky bastard who blossomed into a wife beater, dream
stealer, cop squealer. Now just another axed drug dealer. They would come back
for me. They had a taste for it now, for righteous killing. Did I care? No. My
happy times. None. Friends. None. Future. None. The bundle was thick and heavy.
Held together by big red rubber bands. The notes torn and soiled by an army of
unwashed trembling junkie hands. Greasy Euros and black Dollar bills mixed
company with Elizabeth. Her jaded jubilee crown, smudged with the unhealthy
sweat of bad lies and unfilled expectations.
30 pieces of HIV
silver in my pocket. I left. And went looking for the next stage out of Dodge.
