About An Accident Surrounding Some Damn Fine Automobile Machinery

It wasn't like I hadn't killed before. I just found this particular instance distasteful. I mean, the guy asked for it, getting' drunk and all, but he didn't have to pull a knife. Dumbass. A .38 beats a knife every time. Every fucking time.

And it's not like he didn't receive any warning. He should have known what he was getting himself into, walking into the "Dusty Trail" with his frat-boy cohorts. We usually ignore boys like him, being all immature and all, but some things you just don't let slide. Like insulting the barmaid. Especially insulting the barmaid. Nobody insults Sara. Ever.

After the recent rain, nobody in this place was moving around much. Too muddy. Too humid. Too hot. Half the town could be found playing pool in the bar, drinking cold beer. Strangers were a diversion. Some would welcome strangers, mostly for the escape, and the cold, hard cash that they typically carried. Me? I just sat in the corner, back against the wall, taking it all in. People knew me as a regular, but not as familiar. I hadn't been around very long. I tend to move around a lot. I know my way around cows, and trucks. I don't start no shit, as a rule.

People look at me and assume I don't know a lot. I don't, really, but I know some things. Like the sound of a Porsche 911 pulling into the gravel parking lot of a sleazy bar. Sounds a lot like a pickup with expensive wheels. Nobody else in the bar noticed, but I took note of it. Put it on the back burner, so to speak.

He didn't have to announce his arrival like that. He could have just glided in, but he didn't. He made a big deal out of it. People around here don't care for that shit. Not at all. Especially approaching midnight. Closing time was two in the morning, but those last two hours were tricky. Usually, only the die hards hung around that long, but with the recent weather, everyone was sticking around way too long for their own good.

I watched as he and his cronies demanded "Scotch, on the rocks, and not the cheap stuff."

Yeah, like that attitude is gonna fly in this town. They got their wish, and their drinks.

They seized a table, and started drinking with a vengeance. Maybe they were on a Spring break or something. I don't know. But they had no reservations. They became more obnoxious as the night wore on. And the night did wear on.

Back in my corner, I ignored them, for the most part. Occasionally, I'd look up when the group would break out in uproarious laughter, and then look down again, into my drink. I'd look around, and see all the familiar faces, and then go back to my dream.

At around one in the morning, something changed. The regulars started leaving in droves. I was still nursing a big drink. I had my own glass, as a regular, and it held a lot of gin and tonic. A lot.

Just as I was beginning to slip into a sitting coma, I heard screams from across the building. Sounded like it was coming from the bathroom. There was only one bathroom in the place. No "men's" and "women's" crap, just one room with a toilet. I guzzled the remnants of my drink and stood up. I was a bit shaky at first, but the next scream I heard kind of perked me up. A lot.

I strode, quite decidedly toward the bathroom. When I got to the door, I made my way through the crowd, and stood in front of the door. It was locked, so I picked up my boot, and kicked it open. There, on the toilet, was the Porsche Boy, raping Sara. The crowd clambered behind me, hoping for a sordid glimpse, so I appropriately denied them the satisfaction. I kicked the door closed behind me, and as Sara watched, Porsche boy pulled out a knife and lunged at me. He didn't get very far, with his pants around his ankles and all, so I kicked him in the nuts. He dropped like a rag.

I spoke, rather loudly, "Everyone go home. Now."

The door muffled the noise of retreating feet, and after a while, I opened the door. By that time, Sara had gathered herself and her clothing to the point that she could function.

"Go home, Sara."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Go home."

"I'm gonna put him in his car and send him on his way," I lied. "Unless you want to press charges?"

She rushed out of the front door. I glanced out of the window, and noticed that Porsche Boy's entourage had gathered around a van. I guess they were traveling in two vehicles. I walked back to the bathroom, just as Porsche Boy was getting up, and I looked at myself in the mirror. I adjusted my hat, just so it was at the right angle, then looking down, I kicked Porsche Boy in the head with the heel of my boot. Hard. It must have done some damage, 'cause he started writhing like a snake, and shaking. I think he may have bitten the end of his tongue off, 'cause there was a little blood trailing from his mouth.

I looked into the mirror again, noticed that my lips were chapped, and turned on the water over the sink to wash my face. Looking down, I used a paper towel on myself, and threw it into the toilet, flushing it down immediately.

By that time, Porsche Boy had stopped moving around so much, and was just starting to wake up again. I bent down on one knee, moved my mouth to his ear, and whispered, "Do you know what you have done?"

He just looked up, all scared and shit. I reached into his pocket and grabbed the keys to his fine piece of motoring machinery.

"Do you know what is going to happen to you?"

Again, a blank stare, only with a hint of fear this time.

"Well, boy, let's go for a ride."

I dragged him to the front of his car, opened the lid, and stuffed him into the luggage compartment of his 911. He didn't much like it.

The drive to the New Mexico desert was inspiring. The darkness. A little ZZ Top. The warm, night air. I drove that fine vehicle to the edge of the desert, to where the desert meets canyon, and stopped. I opened his glove compartment, found a paper napkin, and proceeded to wipe the car down. Satisfied with my actions, I turned my attention to the front of the car. I knocked on the lid.

"Hey, you awake in there?" I didn't want to have to do it, but I was the only one on hand capable. I also wanted him to be awake. Terribly awake.

All I heard was a bunch of whimpering. I looked up at the stars, oriented myself with the belt of Orion, reached into my belt and pulled out the pistol, and put six shots into the front of the car. Then, I started the car, put it into gear, and sent it down the canyon. A .38 beats a knife every fucking time.

Some people wonder how I was able to get away. People who know me don't wonder at all. Ever.

Today, I was looking in the mirror. I adjusted my new hat, washed my face, and said to myself, "I don't like killing. Much."

I move around a lot. I know what I am doing.

I know how to drive a Porsche, for better or worse.