A taste of what’s to come [fiction]

9 07 2010

His name was Lewis, but she called him John Wayne.

He was at the pub most nights, sitting at the far left side of the dingy bar area – where the smoke smog-clouded most, and the liquor drunk was the hardest. She knew their faces, the same little crowd at their same stools the same time of every other goddamn basically-the-same night.

Wasn’t life always like that?

She knew that if she kissed John Wayne he’d kiss fast, not slow. Hard, not soft. Urgent and desiring and evil, hungrily evil. He’d taste like the Camel residue faintly falling from between his calloused fingers to the grimy counter. The counter: a thick and sticky layer of ash and booze and that crazy cocaine you weren’t supposed to dope on in a place like this, but apparently nobody told the barman (and if it happened after hours, who knew? Or cared, for that matter?) He’d taste of Commemoratino, tequila with lemon… perhaps even of Jack or Johnny, walking across his rough tongue and down his smooth throat as soothing as the sound of his voice would be in the darkness between longing and passion fulfilled.

He would be deliciously, devilishly, all-out American. A modern age cowboy. The next to try and win over the damsel…

…and the next, it goes without saying, to end up dead. He had to die.

If he didn’t, where would be the fun in that?

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