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.