This was to be much harder than I’d imagined. How was I to
kill, without being killed. It would be tricky, yes. To slip in there
undetected, slit his throat or shoot him and beat my retreat hastily. I had
never met the man. Had never seen him. Had no real hate or animosity towards
him. Hell, he could even be a nice guy. I would never find out for I killed him
that very night.
I bought
the trailer for next to nothing. It was such a bargain. Living on my menial
income, I could not pass it up. Thomas, who worked with me at the little factory
doing our little tasks making our little wages, said they were not trailers for
they hauled nothing. They were mobile homes. I disagreed inside and unto myself
only for my little trailer hauled me through many a lonely fog-drenched night.
The fog.
How deep it seemed to peer through. How searchingly eager my little car’s headlights
sought, going to and from, my little job. I hated the
fucking job. I hated Thomas. I hated……..hate.
I grew up
on the Island. It doesn’t matter where for an
island is an island whether it is made up of rock and sand and brush or whether
it is made up in your mind. In the dank dark basement that you never clean and
never show anyone. Musty, dusty, and rusty.
My little
black and white TV blinked through the night. As I said, I held no malice and
knew him not. But a job to do I had and a job to do I did. No payment was to be
received other than the satisfaction of a job well…….well done.
Do it, the
job, then my clean clean Getaway. No McQueen or McGraw or Kim or a Baldwin brother but my own clean clean Getaway.
The Island reeked this time of year of body odor, fish, beer,
cigarette smoke and vomit. I do not like vomit.
I do like popsicles. The sun. A gentle breeze on a cool, non humid, summer’s night. I like
dogs. Never had one. Dad, that man, said they stank. Dad, that man, was vomit.
My little
propane tank heated my little trailer on the nights after my little job. My
little car took me home that night through the fog and the smell of vomit. I
killed him there by the propane tank. This man I’d never met.
The muzzle
was cold.
