Two dead men


This road a rutted river bed, this twisted, bloated fuck I feed, this spiral snaking specter slips left and west away from me. this old and studded sinner said, with cold and loaded coated led “making you a martyr’s rest takes less than lets me free.” He paused his speech and bared his teeth, then spoke of hope he smoked last week, a pretty thing plans to elope, with fragile wing, her neck he roped. She begged his mercy squelched and screamed, eliciting his prey response it seemed, for his cold old eyes, they shone and gleamed as he replayed the bloodied scene. With pride he lit his pipe to smolder, clasped his hand on my left shoulder and two my face with evil grace he placed the barrel of his chrome six loader. The horses reared and the fire spit and his glance he cast to the source of it, a subtle sound, like a falling token, gifted me a precious moment. I dropped my head, and flipped my wrist, and landed home my bound right fist to his turned temple, knuckles kissed, and slithered free my bent left knee, he tumbled hard on top of me, and rolling we bit, kicked and shoved, and I broke free in spit, piss and the mud. I chewed my tongue like cattle’s cud, and spit a torrent of dirt and blood. Then we both dove for that long chrome spike, and luck was on my side that night. I lifted, clicked and a round it fed in to the top of his graying head, and the forest flashed and birds, they fled and my old black mare was speckled red and a dead man was set free.

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