The Day I Killed Angelo de Leone

I had had more than enough of the heat streaming down from the sun, but the shrieking of a Red-Tail hawk suddenly soaring above resounded as a God-like curse on any unfortunate bastard to end up in this place.

I had more than one hole in my leg, I was gut-shot, and the trailings of red sand-cakes stretched back a mile from where I entered this box canyon that smelled of snakeskin, mesquite, and 10,000 year old Indian air.

I reached into what was left of my pack for the flask of liquor. I thought I heard a voice telling me it was not the coffee made in Michigan. Then, peering through the salted-sweat pouring down over my eyes, I saw a wavering figure, 'yeah', the desert heat was fucking with me again.



I downed the last swallow the flask held, tossed it--the fire was now in my throat, satisfyingly. I glanced at the hole in my gut, 'yep', still there. I winced a bit at what felt like another bullet hit, and as it subsided all I could manage was a curled smile aimed at that son-of-a-bitch whoever he was.

I coughed up more blood when I tried to laugh and told whoever might be listening to just go away. I spoke to a figure or a voice, but it didn't matter at this point.

I told it/them/who-the-fuck-ever that some days it's nobody's fault. It is what it is. I was going to mention how I got those holes in me but the hawk shrieked again and I was feeling like shit.

I would say a cool breeze flowed over me, but my mind was just being a fucking liar. Just then I lost the Red-Tail as he flew into the sun, and I could no longer sense anyone standing near me.

Tired, - - 'fuck it'.

I closed my eyes.

This was a day. The day I killed Angelo de Leone.