Hatchet was resting on a filthy railroad tie, staring at his phone, the wind in his face. A steady stream of cars sailed past him in roaring acceleration to higher speeds as they left the limits of the sparse little town made of little more than a grain elevator and a single traffic light. The old man in the auto shop had given him an ice pack for his eyes early that morning. The ice within had melted and it was now a drooping blue rubber bag in his hand. It took him no time at all to search an image of the weird object he found among the bundles of cash in the alley the night prior. According to Wikipedia, he had a Faberge Russian Egg. At least it looked like one. Maybe worth more than twenty times the amount of cash he had taken from the church.
It can’t be real, he told himself. The odds of a Faberge Egg showing up in the bank deposit bag of a church in the middle of nowhere America seemed beyond comprehension, beyond rational speculation, the same chance of suburban backdoors leading to Arabian deserts filled with magical beasts. Like something from semi-lucid dreams. His head rocked back in exhaustion and he tried to stare through the millions of miles of blue distance above him, wondering about the situation back home. A local radio broadcast reported Woody Hightower’s death. His initial reaction was disgust with himself for placing his life in the hands of a waste like Woody but then he corrected himself and wished Woody had received the help he needed. He felt the dragging weight of culpability.
Even the national media had picked up the story, NPR, ABC, FOX News. One person is dead and a half a million dollars in collections is missing in the daring heist of a Texas mega church; the full story after this...
Then there were the parts not privy to the media. The Dog Boys’ betrayal exacerbated him to shivers. He considered ease with wich they had duped him. He wondered if the rich man who bought their sex was involved. He had overestimated his clout with them. He had overestimated his bargain with Clancey. His memory jostled the tattoo on the hand in the alley, a bleeding heart pierced with a syringe. He visualized the truth of it on Clancey, his faceless swordsman. Again he thought about the rich man, the Dog Boys’ benefactor. Do rich men steal bags of money? But there’s more than money involved here, isn’t there?
Son! the old man called to him from the shadow of the garage. Hatchet noticed a Codeine flutter from the pills he had taken for his headache.
Hatchet had driven three hours south in the night until the darkness faded at the far eastern edges to disperse in the anti-twilight of morning. Better to find a new windshield for the truck than risk a disastrous confrontation with the random DPS officer. The old man had believed his story about the semi-rig tire dislodging and smashing into him, which Hatchet had also used to explain his swollen face. What’s with the foot? the old man had asked him. Slipped off the brake when I slammed it down. Uh-huh, that happens. While he doctored Hatchet’s eye, the old man, smelling of fuel, had told him he knew a fellow in the next town over with the exact Ford Ranger glass required for the repair. Hatchet told him money was not a factor and the guy had arrived within twenty minutes and went straight to work. Hatchet had stayed out of sight to evade the rumor mill.
It can’t be real, he told himself. The odds of a Faberge Egg showing up in the bank deposit bag of a church in the middle of nowhere America seemed beyond comprehension, beyond rational speculation, the same chance of suburban backdoors leading to Arabian deserts filled with magical beasts. Like something from semi-lucid dreams. His head rocked back in exhaustion and he tried to stare through the millions of miles of blue distance above him, wondering about the situation back home. A local radio broadcast reported Woody Hightower’s death. His initial reaction was disgust with himself for placing his life in the hands of a waste like Woody but then he corrected himself and wished Woody had received the help he needed. He felt the dragging weight of culpability.
Even the national media had picked up the story, NPR, ABC, FOX News. One person is dead and a half a million dollars in collections is missing in the daring heist of a Texas mega church; the full story after this...
Then there were the parts not privy to the media. The Dog Boys’ betrayal exacerbated him to shivers. He considered ease with wich they had duped him. He wondered if the rich man who bought their sex was involved. He had overestimated his clout with them. He had overestimated his bargain with Clancey. His memory jostled the tattoo on the hand in the alley, a bleeding heart pierced with a syringe. He visualized the truth of it on Clancey, his faceless swordsman. Again he thought about the rich man, the Dog Boys’ benefactor. Do rich men steal bags of money? But there’s more than money involved here, isn’t there?
Son! the old man called to him from the shadow of the garage. Hatchet noticed a Codeine flutter from the pills he had taken for his headache.
Hatchet had driven three hours south in the night until the darkness faded at the far eastern edges to disperse in the anti-twilight of morning. Better to find a new windshield for the truck than risk a disastrous confrontation with the random DPS officer. The old man had believed his story about the semi-rig tire dislodging and smashing into him, which Hatchet had also used to explain his swollen face. What’s with the foot? the old man had asked him. Slipped off the brake when I slammed it down. Uh-huh, that happens. While he doctored Hatchet’s eye, the old man, smelling of fuel, had told him he knew a fellow in the next town over with the exact Ford Ranger glass required for the repair. Hatchet told him money was not a factor and the guy had arrived within twenty minutes and went straight to work. Hatchet had stayed out of sight to evade the rumor mill.
Edit 11.17.2018