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"What I shoulda done," he says, leaning down on a knee, like
he's gonna tie his boot, "is shot you on the spot!" A knife goes poinnng right next to my ear and I didn't
even see a throwing motion. I look at it. The handle is wooden and reads BUCK CERTIFIED.
Before Proosteau can try another trick, I aim the gun at him and fire. A bullet hits him somewhere in the midsection,
and I realize that the feeling of firing a gun is unmatchable to any other thrill I've ever experienced. I continue
shooting and only after three or four shots do I notice the sight of Proosteau's blood and I'm so amped it takes
another few seconds before I realize that the room is filling with smoke and that somehow a brush plant by the
doorway has caught flame. The flame attaches itself to a hanging rug, then to the wall, then to Proosteau's shirt,
then his beard. He's groaning and I toss the gun aside and run over to him. He's not dead because he's squirming
on the floor. He kicks the wall, grumbling, "Goddamnit!" and smoke and the scent of burning continues
to rise. The hair is singed off my arms as I go through his pockets and find the truck keys.
Steering proves to be no problem, even with a bloodied hand that--judging by the tendrils of discoloration winding
up the palm--has gone infected. I try to remember the route Proosteau took from the airport to his place. How can
I trace it backwards? Which turn was which? I drive along, but I'm kicking up too much dust so I slow the truck,
especially around turns. But then, by hell and damnation, I hit a dead end. I hop out of the truck and scope its
features. It's 4x4. I consider off-roading the fucker, just driving until I hit something. A house, a city, a market,
anything. Hopefully a hospital before anything else because this shit is seriously fucked. I remember the police.
The police will doubtlessly lock me up for some time because of all this, those fucking bastards. None of it is
even my fault.
Standing out here, looking at the truck, I notice a little buggeroo crawling around near the front tires, hiding
in the shade. I go in for a closer inspection.
Sure enough, like some kind of dream, it's a Gila. The markings are similar, but there's no way of knowing for
sure. The ugly freak scampers away from the truck and I hover over it. It stops by a little hole in the ground
and I raise my shoe high.
"Sayonara" I whisper, but I can't do it. I try to plunge my foot down on the fat bastard, but my brain
simply will not send the message. I try again, but I can't. The Gila looks up at me, almost winks, and then vanishes
into the hole.
I get back in the truck and I start driving away from the dead end, back along the road, back toward Proosteau's
house, back toward something. The sky is yellow and blue. I get to Proosteau's and park the truck. The right side
of the house is engulfed in flames, but the left side isn't bad. I wonder if Proosteau's dead in there. I go in
through the door, through the smoke, covering my mouth with my injured hand. I see him. Proosteau's dead all right.
I don't know why but I go into the weed drawer and grab what's there, but then just toss it into a patch of flame.
I see the gun on the ground where I dropped it. I try to pick it up but it burns me. The thing is practically glowing
red and the smoke is becoming too much and over here on the left side of the house things are quickly getting worse.
I kick the gun through the doorway, past the pile of clothing and ashes that was once my uncle, and into the dirt
outside. I kick it out to the truck, and then kick some thick soil over it, hoping to cool it off. There is no
greater thrill than shooting a gun. I need it. I give it some time under the dirt, then it's ready. Hot to the
touch but not too hot to hold. I tuck into the waist of my pants.
The sirens begin and I don't know who could've told the police anything because as far as I know there isn't another
house for at least ten miles in any direction. I decide to just hang back and let them come to me because after
all, I haven't done anything wrong. They arrive and the hostility is with them.
"It was just candles!" I tell them, pointing at the smoldering building behind me. "Proosteau had
lots of candles!"
"Get in the dirt!" a cop shouts at me. "Hands interlaced atop your head!"
I decide there's no exit here. The cops will believe what they want to believe, and they can take that to the grave.
The grave that is more forthcoming than they might think. I pull the handgun and take aim. I begin pulling the
trigger but there's just click click click empty and I see the facial expression of one of the cops. It is one
of surprise and survival, but mostly survival. I get the bullets this time, feel them course through me, and if
I'm honest, the thrill of being shot is even greater than the thrill of shooting.
"Did the same thing out in LA. Damn near killed his buddy," I hear one of the cops say. "Call emergency
medical, this guy might live. Call fire, too."
"Yup," I hear another voice say. "A little pyro, this one. You can see his record, here..."
Lying on my back, I feel the fading once more. The sky is bright and the sun is the only visible celestial body.
Time passes and I feel hands lifting me up. Arms, hands and arms, lifting me, taking me somewhere.
I don't know where I'm going but I'm thinking of women, and poker, and police, and the white sterility of hospital
rooms. I'm thinking about shooting. I don't know what I'm doing or who is holding me but I'm thinking there might
be gods out there and Jupiter is the biggest planet of all...
THE END
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