She tapped my face with my knife. "That's a good boy. But if you're bullshitting me, I'll come straight back here. And this time I'll cut your cock off and shove it down your throat." She leaned over me and dragged her hard nipples across my face. I didn't look at her as she dressed but I heard her walk out the trailer door, dig around underneath for the shovel, and start up my GEO over the stereo: "People say I'm no good and crazy as a loon Cause I get stoned in the morning I get drunk in the afternoon" I lay there in that hot sweaty trailer as the blood ran out of me and I waited. And waited. And waited some more. The explosion was loud that it shook my trailer. Seconds later it sounded like it was hailing outside as something metallic sounding rained down on to the roof of my trailer. Then I smiled and closed my eyes. Because I had to wait no longer.
EPILOGUE
Obviously since you're reading about this I
made it out there alive, but that was some pretty
poetic shit I wrote at the end, huh? The hail coming
down on to my trailer was from the mine that
exploded when Reggie stuck her shovel into the top
it. The fucking thing was packed with hundreds of
stainless steel ball bearings. Since Reggie was
standing directly over it when the mine exploded,
the force of the blast practically vaporized her. The
key word there is explode. Since the mine exploded
not imploded, and the briefcase was under the mine,
it survived almost without a scratch. The sound of
blast alerted Javier who got to me before I nodded
off into the Big Sleep and I was whisked off to the
mainland by boat where I was laid up in the hospital
for almost a month. It was there that the Feds finally
caught up to me. It was quite a wild scene in my
room. Javier had rounded some of his old buddies
up from his days in the police department to watch
over me. Big dudes with bad fucking attitudes,
brandishing shiny long knives and automatic
weapons, and they had the Feds shitting in their
knickers for a while. Of course, they still ran the
whole line of bullshit at me. I was going to be
arrested. I was going to do the hardest time
imaginable. I was going to the Super-Max prison in
Colorado where I was going to get turned out by the
Black Panthers, the Mexican Mafia, and the Aryan
Brotherhood. I was going to be a bitch with an
asshole so big you could drive a Ford pickup
through it. One dildo even threatened to send me to
Cuba where they have all the terrorists locked up.
But they were missing one crucial item and they
knew it.
The briefcase! The briefcase was gone. And
the only person who knew where it was, wasn't
fucking talking. Me! When it was all said and done,
they didn't give a hot shit about the NIS agent killed
all those years ago, or me breaking out of the
nuthouse and shooting those dirtbags in that trailer,
or even Reggie - one of their own - blowing her
sweet ass to hell digging up that mine. They wanted
that goddamn briefcase. Not even the whole
briefcase. Just the photos and the negatives showing
(my agreement with the Feds negates
me from writing HIS name), all coked up, naked
except for black dress socks, getting a hum job from
a beautiful hooker.
I had them by the nuts and they knew it.
They could send me off to prison. They could even
kill me. But that picture. That fucking picture would
still be out there. It could resurface anytime at my
command. So they cut me a deal. They'd give me a
new identity (the third one of my life) and shoot my
ass straight into the Witness Protection Program.
Give me protection from the skinheads and the
Nazis. With one condition. Keep your fucking
mouth shut and never let that photo or it's negatives
see the light of day or your ass will be deeper in
concrete that Jimmy Hoffa.
I guess I can live with that.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Anonymous hails from Albert Lea, a small redneck
meat packing plant town located in southern
Minnesota. After fulfilling his dream of getting the
hell out of there (just not in the way he wanted it),
he has traveled around the United States, Germany,
Mexico, Canada, Austria, Switzerland, Holland, and
the Pacific. He has been a pizza delivery boy, sailor,
drug dealer, bartender, longshoreman, Cuban cigar
importer, and more recently, a writer. Currently he
is a member of the United States Witness Protection
Program. He has been shot twice and stabbed once.
To catch a glimpse of him you'll need to rent or buy
a copy of Girls Gone Wild Cancun - in the
background of one scene where a young lady
wearing a neon pink bikini flashes her huge jugs
you can see Anonymous (wearing wraparound
shades and a Pittsburgh Steelers ball cap) cheering
her on with a raised Corona in one hand and a
Cuban cigar in the other.
Scott L. Anderson has been employed as a sailor,
soldier, prison guard, and as an attendant at a
maximum security mental hospital. Inspiration for
his writing comes from both his personal
experiences and the experiences of the people that
he has been lucky to know in his life. His work has
been featured in Suspect Thoughts, Plots With
Guns, The M.A.G., Nefarious, Moonwort Review,
Circle Magazine, and Loompanics, LTD.