Friday, May 2, 2008

Victor's Return

'Is smells bad, they must have transported animals in this hold at some point. Now it’s packed with the supplies and material of a guerrilla war, courtesy of the SRID. Still, you can smell the humbler roots. Better the smell than the look in these beleaguered bandlanders' eyes. They have no idea what is expected of them, who does? Some of them are outlaws, some pawns the rest just tools. Innocent kids run around and scream. I could be riding with Ethan in the Antelope but it’s too bloody hot out there, better in here, even if it smells. At least it’s quiet and cool in the hold. I don’t want to mingle with them because I’m afraid. Afraid I’ll meet someone who knew the guy I painted onto the back of the behemoth with my shotgun. Gods the blood! Like the field hospitals, no, worse than that. He didn’t even pull a gun, he just looked at me dumbfounded and then.'

Red, dripping down drop by delicate drop, taking its time, like the bead of sweat rolling down her throat, creeping forward, inching, sliding, sipping the pleasure of caressing her softly browned skin. Past the clavicle, circling the super sternal notch, avoiding its pull then slithering down still further into the cleft between her breasts behind the plastered cotton of her sweaty red dress. Red.

'I killed 3 men yesterday, or was it four? I don’t want to think about it, why am I killing people, another pawn, what am I doing here? I wanted to come to Baja to make things better, to make myself better. Is this the price because it can’t be the way? Can’t I be something other than what I was without being what I am becoming? I wonder if this is what happened to Him? Chipping away at the dream with a chisel, one death blow at a time until there is no art left, just broken marble and the acrid odour of burnt possibilities. One can’t atone for past crimes a dead man whispered to me, can I atone for my past mediocrity? At least no one owns me, unless I am selling myself without even knowing it? May the gods strike me down now if I become like Him, killing until it becomes more comfortable than trying to save a life. I let Emile die; I didn’t even know his first name until it was on his epitaph. It was easier to let him die than to try and save him. Just like that poor bastard who ate my shotgun at point blank.

'Gods how I want to be away from these badlanders, away from the Marshal and his psychotic vendettas. I did some good didn’t I? I must have saved some lives, just with the plan to keep the kids safe I saves some of those god damned screaming kids, would they shut up or move on somewhere else! It’s too damned hot in the confounded desert, not like down south, there is no pleasure in this heat, you don’t warm yourself in it, you just burn. You dry up and die.'

Lush vegetation, ample, luxuriant fresh and moist, the smell fills your very being, dripping with life, droplets running off curving leaves, sweat running down her back, little drops like pearls, crystal balls in which I could see the future, each drop a dream, fleeting, sucked into the red pima cotton dress greedily drinking in her essence as the tone becomes more crimson the wetter is gets.

'Why does she come to mind when I think of death? Why do I see her so clearly, feel her so tangibly? Stop torturing yourself Tom, Stop!'


'Look at their faces, I’ve scared them out of their wits. Shit, that little one is going to cry, I just wish the kids would stop screaming around me. What do they think of me, how do they see me? I better go and see about joining Ethan in the jeep. At least it doesn’t smell out there.'


Hermes 72 - Heavy Gear RPG - Most artwork Copyright 2002 Dream Pod 9, Inc.