delicious murder

The white truffle hid in the cool red folds. The garlic was angry and prowling and the olive oil made traction impossible. Absolutely no footing at all. The elk was long dead and the ectomycorrhizal fruiting body was sure to follow.

There was a low hum in the dim evening light that was felt more than heard. Muffled voices mumbled intoxicated through the wall. Smoke swirled around the patio through the sliding door.

A man appeared from the living room and walked to the refrigerator and removed a bottle of beer. Another man, in a camoflage baseball hat moved over to the plastic container and loomed above. The man with the beer stepped up beside and pointed a proud finger towards the warming flesh.

"Yeah?"
"Yeah."

He took a pull from the bottle and wiped his mouth on his arm and nodded. "Yeah."

A third man stepped into the room to join the others, knowing the time was close at hand.

The truffle closed it's eyes and shuddered, remembering the screams of the tomatoes when the door was slammed on the metal cylinder, their steaming lifeless eyes as they were dumped unceremoniously into the mixing bowl. The poor, innocent potatoes; their skin sliced from their bodies one dreadful howling slice at a time till they bled-out sticky on the white counter just to be dumped half-dead into the boiling liquid. At least the broccoli had been quick; a merciful decapitation.

A browning banana on the edge of the microwave looked down with sad, beaten eyes.

There was a grinding noise and the plate was lifted from the counter. They were moving toward the smoke. The chives cried out as the lid opened and the fire rolled and howled. The yellow peppers were stubborn and resolute, their faces unreadable as they were placed one by one on the hot steel with a sickening sizzle.

The garlic panicked.

The meat fell with a slap. The pain was instant and unbearable. The truffle choked through a scream into the smoke as the man with the beer placed another bleeding slab on the grill. The coals hissed in anger and flames flashed in terrible chaos. The truffle could take no more. The last thing it saw before losing consciousness was the face of the man in the camouflage baseball hat floating in the darkening twilight.

He was smiling.

-Alex who likes his death rare, please.

Getaway

Luke sat with his back against the cold rock, his hat pulled low on his head. A Winchester repeating rifle leaned against the low rock wall to his right as he squinted his eyes against the wind and looked out over the pass.

Walter had told him it was real important that he keep a keen eye, because they would most likely be coming up through from south, so “keep your damn eye lids open, boy.” Walt had said. “I come back up’er and you catchin’ a wink im’a clean yer plow.” So Luke watched the moon-lit valley as he was told.

Movement caught his eye and adrenaline flushed through him. He looked hard. There was something moving, but Luke thought it seemed too small to be a man. Lots of night critters run around these hills. He stuck a blade of grass in his mouth and settled back into the rock and continued his vigil.

Luke was fourteen years old, and hard as any man, he reckoned. He had been with Walter for as long as he could remember. Luke’s parents had been killed when he was just a small boy and Walt had taken him to raise him best he could. He remembered little from his childhood.

They had once ridden with a hand named Francis, who had been one of Lem’s men till an unsettled dispute had sent Francis looking for work. Francis loved his Whiskey and had got full as a tic on stump one night and told Luke that Walt had killed his parents over a debt and grabbed him as cover from the sheriff’s deputies bullets on his way out the door.

Luke didn’t believe the story and had told Walt what Francis said. Walt assured Luke that it was just a tall tale, said “You should never believe words that smell somuch like whiskey, boy” and walked off with a limp. Francis never made it back to camp. Luke just assumed Walt had run him off. Luke thought he might have seen Francis’ saddle for sale in the store the following week, but he couldn’t be sure.

Luke heard a rustle over this left shoulder and turned his head. Walt’s dark outline slowly moved around the rock, cresting the hill in his direction. The shadowy figure quietly made its way to his side.

“Anythin’?”
“No sir, but this’s a dandy spot, yes sir, we’ll get the bulge on ‘em, alright.”

Walt nodded in the dark and turned away.

“Walt?”
“Yeah?”
“Is it true that Lem got the rope? I heard they came and drug ‘em right outta jail.”

Walt stopped and turned his head slightly, pulling his Stetson down against the cold. “Yeah, they lynched him.”

Luke swallowed hard and stared at his boots.

Walt turned full around, facing him.

“Don’t you worry ‘bout it, boy. In a few days we’ll shove the queer and be bendin’ our elbows someplace nice. Maybe get a couple ladies keep us company.”

Luke nodded in the dark. Walt turned back and picked his footing around the hilltop and disappeared.

Luke pulled his gloves tight. He thought about the money. He thought about ladies with skin fine as cream gravy. He thought about Lem Redfield swinging from a rope and shivered.

Luke stared out into the dark over the pass.

One hundred-and-something years later...

Luke's Wall

Aaron as usual.

Be afraid of this.

Some gotten.

-Alex who hopes Luke make it to the ladies with skin fine as cream gravy.