The gas station sat like a sinking ship on an open sea. Surrounded by desert, tilted to the left, a miracle of collective friction holding together the old warped planks that the place was built from. A cloud of desert grit hovered over the place, generated by our car coming to a sudden stop. Before I could undo my seatbelt Sanchez was out the passenger door and around back, popping the trunk open. I saw him go for the gas pump in the side-view, then looked over to catch the old codger heading out to greet us.
Poor old coot probably lived in a room in back. Night time desert winds serenading him to sleep for the last 30 years. His eyes, permanently squinted by years of working in this desert sun. Pumping gas for strangers for a lifetime.
That old man's eyes went wide once he made it over to the pump. Then his mouth formed an oh as he let out a silent prayer. I pumped two rounds into him, they hit dead center, two tiny red eruptions in the middle of his faded overalls bib. I watched him drop into the dirt, then I got out of the car.
As I tucked my .45 into my belt I tasted grit on my tongue. Licked my lips and tried to spit it out. Then I turned to the back of the car. Sanchez was pouring gas all over the couple in the trunk.
We had them tied together. Husband and wife. Figured it'd be quicker that way. I watched the clear gasoline washing the husband's comb-over aside. The few strands of hair he had left were now stuck to his wife's left cheek. Her eyes were wild with fright. I could hear her choking on the rag stuffed in her mouth. Bet that gas soaking into it didn't help either.
Sanchez was quietly chuckling to himself as he went about his work. His tongue occasionally darting across his lips in delight. I don't know how he did it. I never went in for the sadist act. Give me a gun and I'm a fucking killer but ask me to chop off somebody's pecker or some twist like that and Sanchez is your man.
Originally posted on October 14, 2005 on Myspace.
Some of my prose fiction. I always really liked this one.
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