Dead dog lying on the side of road, flies partying all around. The border is an hour behind us now. Sticky heat of Belize building, adding to my paranoia. My head is bumping like a road-drill. Dirty, cheap rum poisoning my system. The bus jumps again, riding the “road” like a rubber ball on cobblestones. Brain rattles in my skull, turning my thoughts to mush.Today is a bad day to give up smoking.
Again, I catch a car behind us. White and gaining fast. Through steamed-up glasses and dirt-smeared bus windows, It looks like the police. Heart jumps again, electricity coursing through my arms. I begin to sweat again. Brain begins to work overtime. Images fly through my brain.
Me being gunned down on the bus. Me being gunned down getting off the bus. Me in the back of the trunk, arms tied down to cramping. Me disappearing into the depths of a Mexican prison. Then, the face of Groovy John disappearing under the water.
Goddamn this heat.
At the border, the heavyset Mexican customs man waved me through without a fuss. I smelled a trap. Standing at the Belizean counter, ten metres away, I kept him in my peripheral, waiting to be jumped from behind. The butt of my gun felt heavy on my thigh, a welcome friend at a troubled time. Just try to stop me! No, no, no. I need to be cool. Be like Fonzie. Eyyyy.
The Belizean man stamped my passport, waved me through. I hurried through the door and onto the first bus I could find. Nobody followed. Are they screwing with me? Waiting for me to relax? I sat at the back, next to the emergency exit.
Groovy John's dying face burns in my vision like a cattle brand. The waters recede and he sinks. Maggot food.
The car is getting closer. I feel for my silver friend. The steel is cool against the maddening heat. I flick the safety. Check for the briefcase under the seat.
Raquel can see my fury. My fear. She knows the trouble we are in. She smiles warmly, but I know she is as scared as me. I squeeze her hand. We go together.
Yesterday, we frolicked in the lakeside. The only guests in an empty hotel. We dived and jumped and splashed. The cool water making us forget ourselves for a moment. We had forever ahead of us. Now so short. Cruel irony.
The car is close now. They are nearly on us. My heart pounds against my ribs. Time for action. Death whispers sweet nothings in my ear, taunting. I go to stand.
The car passes in a cloud of dust. No sirens, no lights, no badges on the side. False alarm again. My heart does a jig of joy. The wet rivers of sweat down my back begin to slowly dry. False alarm.
I sit and breath deeply. Just three hours 'til San Ignacio. We'll know what to do when we get there. Everything will be better there.
The vision of Groovy John still burns like neon in my mind. But he's gone now. He's not here. And here is all that matters now.
Goddamn this heat.
Please note: this is a work of fiction. The trip across the border was mostly uneventful. We are not on the run. I do not have a gun. Rachel has not changed her name to Raquel. We have not killed anyone called Groovy John. I don't even know if there is such a person called Groovy John (it is a cool name though). In fact, we haven't killed anyone (yet). Call off the search party. Thank you for listening. Stay tuned for more adventures after this break.
Again, I catch a car behind us. White and gaining fast. Through steamed-up glasses and dirt-smeared bus windows, It looks like the police. Heart jumps again, electricity coursing through my arms. I begin to sweat again. Brain begins to work overtime. Images fly through my brain.
Me being gunned down on the bus. Me being gunned down getting off the bus. Me in the back of the trunk, arms tied down to cramping. Me disappearing into the depths of a Mexican prison. Then, the face of Groovy John disappearing under the water.
Goddamn this heat.
At the border, the heavyset Mexican customs man waved me through without a fuss. I smelled a trap. Standing at the Belizean counter, ten metres away, I kept him in my peripheral, waiting to be jumped from behind. The butt of my gun felt heavy on my thigh, a welcome friend at a troubled time. Just try to stop me! No, no, no. I need to be cool. Be like Fonzie. Eyyyy.The Belizean man stamped my passport, waved me through. I hurried through the door and onto the first bus I could find. Nobody followed. Are they screwing with me? Waiting for me to relax? I sat at the back, next to the emergency exit.
Groovy John's dying face burns in my vision like a cattle brand. The waters recede and he sinks. Maggot food.
The car is getting closer. I feel for my silver friend. The steel is cool against the maddening heat. I flick the safety. Check for the briefcase under the seat.
Raquel can see my fury. My fear. She knows the trouble we are in. She smiles warmly, but I know she is as scared as me. I squeeze her hand. We go together.Yesterday, we frolicked in the lakeside. The only guests in an empty hotel. We dived and jumped and splashed. The cool water making us forget ourselves for a moment. We had forever ahead of us. Now so short. Cruel irony.
The car is close now. They are nearly on us. My heart pounds against my ribs. Time for action. Death whispers sweet nothings in my ear, taunting. I go to stand.
The car passes in a cloud of dust. No sirens, no lights, no badges on the side. False alarm again. My heart does a jig of joy. The wet rivers of sweat down my back begin to slowly dry. False alarm.
I sit and breath deeply. Just three hours 'til San Ignacio. We'll know what to do when we get there. Everything will be better there.The vision of Groovy John still burns like neon in my mind. But he's gone now. He's not here. And here is all that matters now.
Goddamn this heat.
Please note: this is a work of fiction. The trip across the border was mostly uneventful. We are not on the run. I do not have a gun. Rachel has not changed her name to Raquel. We have not killed anyone called Groovy John. I don't even know if there is such a person called Groovy John (it is a cool name though). In fact, we haven't killed anyone (yet). Call off the search party. Thank you for listening. Stay tuned for more adventures after this break.
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2 comments:
The furrows grooved my brow, my face creased as I faced the monster. Was this it? Was this what it had all come down to? A slug? So many times had I grimaced in fear - is that why I was known as Groovy John? How could I escape? How could I cheat fate again? What if I feigned death? Would I be able to deceive? Could I survive again? - I had survived before many times but........... This was my last hope - I took it -as the slug rocketed towards me I fell striking myself senseless on the way down, blood oozed, voices screamed and footsteps signalled retreat. I had done it! I had survived again! Never again I vowed, never again would I face a slug................never, ever, ever again would I contemplate anything other than washed and sanitised Lettuce - I hate Slugs!
Slugs are dangerous. Why do you think they call it "getting slugged". Nice one, slugger.
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