Living in a world that makes no fucking sense; I duck into Palm Tree Liquors the sand blowing eating up every bit of moisture in the sick air grab a tall boy from the reefer walk up to the counter heft the grip of my forty-five auto set the beer down "give me what's in the register motherfucker" he goes for his I go for mine one shot blood splashes against the amber filled bottles behind the asshole at the counter like baptismal red paint. I clean out the box walk into the blowing sand and stinking darkness get a room off Desert Road count the money, sip the tall boy listen to the Mexican music on the radio and check the outbound bus schedule.
Here's what the author has to say for himself..... "Been a long time. Here's one of my short, short, short crime stories from an upcoming book of short crime/noir I'm working on titled 100 crimes in 100 seconds. I also have an avant-guarde crime novel Punk Blood due out this week from FC2, and a book of poetry from View Books this fall. Let me know what you think. It's an experiment to see how short I could get it, and have it so it will stand on its own."
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