The road ahead is long.
and hard. and winding. you place your coat on the horse. it sticks on there like hotcold butter. you like it that way. you fasten your pack to the horse. tighter. shotgun on the right next to the dry food. on the right theres linen and oatmeal. and a singleshot pistol. it was from your grandfather. a third one clings to your thigh like a tick. hardpacked ground reminds you of flashfloods. your hometown had a season for that. someones whole life got swept away from them sometimes. sometimes they went with it. your father worked at a casino. he was a flash flood of a man. charming and quick and painful. one smile and 8 drinks later you would be 3000 dollars in the gutter. he didn’t even get the money. you always wondered why he was okay with doing that. ruining lives for no one and a number. or you did anyways. until about 3 weeks ago. that was when you picked up a package from a stranger. he had long black hair and the eyes of a lizard. it was a metal briefcase, cold to the touch and yellow in the dim lights of a morning. you always liked lizards. he told you it was important. get it to somewhere quick and easy. or hard. kill if you need. you walked out the door with a grin and your fathers penchant for running away. the horse makes a sound only a living thing can make. you hold its back like a scared child. nothing is out of the ordinary. you chisel the memory of the horse’s voice into your arm.