I follow his long legs through the bushes, walking along the property line. Luckily the moon has just begun to wax or wane or whatever exposing the valley and I just keep quiet ‘cause it’s too cold, too dark to laugh or anything else. Something keeps barking, and I can’t see the road no’more, and I got this urge to stop.
There’s a big city elsewhere, I think
— with women I could hold all night their tongues in caviar, voices on the line.
But for now, I’m following this oaf through frozen swampland looking for his doggie’s grave, and lucky for me his Daddy just cleaned that gun and built those bullets all for us, for this night.
And just like that I realize, she’s right. That bitch. Just because twenty years (longer) ago he was some handsome devil kicked out of the desert army willing to break my shoulder and bite my lip, doesn’t mean I needa’ follow his footprints through the country-side today.
We’re fucking grave-robbers, we are.