Thursday, May 30, 2013

Diary of a Degenerate 36

The end of the line.  It was a place you didn’t want to visit, especially half-naked and covered in blood and sweat.  Luckily it was bearable through the fog of liquor.  I pretended I didn’t see the lights screaming at me through the rear view as I pulled another deep drink from the bottle.  I still had some shots left in the six shooter, but honestly it would probably end up in my mouth before it was turned on the federales.

*Bump.  The cop car was losing patience as it brushed up against my tail.  I couldn’t feign ignorance anymore.  Fuck this country.  Fuck my life.  And fuck this goddamn sun.  I pulled over to the shoulder and watched as the cop calmly exited his vehicle, shotgun in hand.  He screamed something spanish at me, then immediately followed with some indecipherable broken english.  As a full time drunk with pullover experience,  I presumed he wanted me to put my hands on the steering wheel, so I did.  The left hand was torn to pieces.  At some point I had put a sock over it as a bandage, but didn’t remember doing it.  Thank god for booze.

I could only imagine his reaction as he looked through the window at me, a gringo covered in blood with a sock on one hand and a bottle of tequila in the other.  “ID!” he shouted.  Almost out of reflex I dropped the bottle and reached into the plastic bag at my feet and grabbed a handful of US currency, then tossed it out the window like bloodstained confetti.  Then I lurched forward and got back on the road, fully expecting a pump-action load to punch me in the occipital lobe.  It was a few moments before I looked in the mirror and saw the cop frantically chasing down airborne $100’s.

Now what?  It seemed unlikely that I would ever find a calm place to hang out for a while, but more importantly, what was my long game?  I gave up on happiness back when I ditched Vanessa’s corpse, and all I had left was the booze.  Then I saw the lights again.

The cop was back.  Fuck him for screwing with the age old agreement between mexican police and criminals.  If you pay them off, they leave you alone.  They don’t get to double dip in the honeypot.  Soon he was right up my ass again, pressing against my bumper.  I hit the brakes hard, and the truck turned sideways.  All I remember is the bottle floating through the air like a glass bird, and smashing me in the face.  I would have expected the crash to knock me unconscious, but there was no such luck.  Money was everywhere, greenbacks turning in the wind as my vision stabilized, and I noticed I was laying in the passenger side footwell, breathing heavily.

All I could think was that my back is broken.  I couldn’t move my legs, but there was pain there.  Screaming in spanish.  Shotgun pointed at the truck for sure.  End of the line.  I put my head down and saw it, my last salvation.  I reached out with my “good” hand, the one with only three broken fingers, and grasped the revolver.  Without hesitation I guided the barrel over my teeth and fired.  It could have been all over, but god hates me.


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