”No more excuses left, except the one to rip that asshole's face off and stretch it clean across the ball of my fist, eyeholes held in place by these two fingers. I ain’t the same man I was yesterday.”
Joe pulled up at the abandoned shelter, his flaming motorbike growling to a halt. He checked his watch. Two minutes past three. That bitch ass had to be fast asleep on his piss-stained rag of a mattress in there. He scoured the surrounding area for any signs of life. None to speak of, bar the cricket’s incessant chirping through the stillness of the night. Four days gone and there had been no sign of him. The phone line was dead and most of his fleeting accomplice’s already scattered to the winds. Some were murdered, some got it even worse. The money was of no consequence anymore. Only a yearning for some sweet, lingering death dished out from his own capable hands.
He lowered the kickstand using the heel of his boot and dismounted. The loud crunch of gravel under his foot caused him to freeze. A subtle grimace crawled upon his face. The amount of time spent on that straight, parched never-ending highway rocked his usually impeccable judgement. Attention levels now adjusted back to maximum capacity, the other boot came down on the rough, dusty terrain with a new and concentrated ease. A soft thud still managed to dissipate around his large footprint, though quiet enough not to alert the unsuspecting sleeping fool. Moments like this had to be savoured, not rushed. He could almost hear the grim reaper sharpening his scythe just over his shoulder.
Each step drew him closer to the old, plywood door. The small outhouse almost glowed in the murky gloom, it’s luminous walls displaying various graffiti nametags in large, bold colourful lettering. The sole adjacent window was covered up with patches of newspaper. A possible concealed support structure pressed up behind it. Approaching with caution, a gust of wind caught the long ponytail trailing down his back, blowing it to one side. A few steps away from the entrance and he began the ritual unsheathing of the two-foot steel machete from it’s leather belt pouch.
A transient thought entered his mind. That of the numerous mangled bodies his actions had laid to waste in the past. Countless lives cut short with the same methodical precision he had grown so accustomed to carrying out. Gallons of blood spilt from shredded, spurting arteries. Jellied flesh hanging loose either side of the bastard's gaping wounds. The piercing cries of agony only feeding his torturous thirst for more butchery. But tonight was different. He would savour this beautiful death so long as Miguel’s desperate soul clung on to it's ravaged carcass.