The Mystic Arts of Erasing All Signs of Death

I punched him.

Now, I don't want to mislead, it wasn't like it was a bone-crunching roundhouse that would have made the Duke proud, but I do want it recorded that I finally lost my cool and did punch the fucker. Well, hit might be a better word. OK, more accurately, it was kind of a slap.

But I slapped him hella hard, man.

He touched his shoulder where I'd slapped him.

– What the fuck was that?

I slapped him again.

He raised a hand.

– Dude.

I slapped him again.

He slapped me back.

– Cool it, asshole.

Then I kind of lost my cool for real and turned on the seat so my back was against the door and brought up my feet and started kicking him.

He opened his door and jumped out.

– Asshole, what the fuck?

I came out of the truck after him.

– She's your sister, fucker.

He ran around to the other side of the Apache, trying to keep it between us.

– So what?

I ran after him and we circled the truck.

– So you are the biggest dick ever and you got involved in some stupid shit with some real criminals and now she's kidnapped and you're acting like it doesn't matter.

He stopped running, turned to face me.

– Asshole, what are you talking about?

I ran up to him, stopped, fist cocked to throw my first real punch since junior high.

– I'm talking about taking some fucking responsibility for your actions, asshole.

Irony noted.

He had his own fist primed and ready to fly.

– Asshole, taking resfonsihilityi I mean, it's not like she wasn't involved in this shit from the beginning.

I lowered my fist.

He smiled.

– Oh, she didn't tell you that one?

I shook my head.

He nodded.

– Asshole.

And he punched me. A real punch. A roundhouse the Duke would have been proud of.

– What you get for hitting me.

– I slapped you.

– You kicked me.

– Not hard.

– So what? Still you started it.

He finished off the half pint of Malibu he'd gone across the street for while I collected myself from the ground after he punched me and reopened, yet again, the cut on my forehead.

– I seem to be developing this brand-new talent for getting my ass kicked.

He tossed the empty bottle on the ground, shattering it over a parking space.

– That a new talent? Way you got it mastered, I figured you to be an old hand.

– Fuck off and tell me where the almonds are.

– Harris is from way up north. Paradise or one of those hick redneck mountain towns like that. Ozarks of the West, man. Guys come down from those hills, they mostly got like three teeth, a wandering eye, cleft palate, and third-degree syphilis. Straight out of Deliverance. Sooooeeeyyy They get as far as L.A., you'll see them standing outside the corner 7-Eleven bumming change so they can buy a taco-dog. Losers.

Jaime punctuated his last comment by taking his finger from his nostril and flicking a hard-won booger out the window. I chalked that up to good breeding. Having assumed he'd pop it in his mouth for a snack.

– Harris and his clan, they're mostly hijackers.

I looked from the rearview, where I was eyeballing the latest in a long line of cars with their noses shoved up the rear of the slow-rolling Apache, as we switched from the 405 North to the 110 South to San Pedro.

– Hijackers? What, like, Release twenty of my fellow believers or I'll crash this plane into the Sears Tower'}

He went digging for another nose nugget.

– No, asshole, like, get out of the cab of this fucking truck and give me the manifest or I'll shove this gauge up your ass and blow your torso open. Trucks. They hijack trucks. Boost farm equipment. Tractors. Irrigation pipe. Fertilizer. Do some rustling now and then from what Talbot said.

– Rustling? No way.

– Way. Not like herds or anything. Just when they get a shot at a couple studs, they boost ‘em.

He grinned, flicked more snot.

– There's a real market for quality bull jizz. Thought about going into that market. My own brand. Jaime's Horny Homegrown.

He pumped his fist in front of his crotch.

– Jizz like mine, probably get a bull pregnant as easy as a chick.

– Cow.

– Huh?

– You don't get bulls pregnant. You get cows pregnant. I mean, if you have a thing for fucking bulls you should just come out in the open with it. Kind of thing was frowned on at one time, but people are far more open and accepting now.

– Fuck you, asshole. I'm not gay.

I stuck my hand out the window and flipped off the driver of an overdeveloped Italian sports car as he blasted past us, leaning on his horn.

– I wasn't suggesting you were gay. I was suggesting that you liked to fuck bulls. The two are not in the least related.

– Bulls have dicks.

I looked at him.

– Are we having this conversation?

He stuck his finger in my face.

– Bulls have dicks. If I like to fuck bulls, I'm gay.

I turned back to the road.

– Have it your own way.

He leaned into the seat.

– Just saying, I am not gay.

– Like I said, as you wish. Anyone asks, I got the information. Jaime? No, he's not gay. Just likes to fuck bulls.

He popped out of the seat.

– Listen, asshole!

I jammed on the brakes and he flew into the steel dash. I floored the gas and he bounced back onto the seat, cracking his head against the rear cab window.

– Ow! Fuck! Shit! Ow!

I dropped back into my slow, steady, road rage inducing, pace.