The skinhead wipes the rain out of his eyes and cackles. “I’m glad I’m not the poor bastard that has to try and identify your body.” His pump-action shotgun is wedged against my throat. He is going to make one hell of a mess . . .
Tag: Tom Leins
The grave is waist-deep when the cramps start . . .
Freddy scowls when I shine my flashlight in his face. His gold tooth glints in the gloom . . .
We drove as far as we could and abandoned the car when the gas ran out . . .
It’s happy hour at the Dirty Lemon, but I recognize the same lipstick smear on my glass from when I was in here this morning. It’s 9 pm, but the room is still hot and my half-drunk beer is already warm . . .