Mexicali Blues

"Let's do this thing," Gutter said, "Animal style." 

 

He aimed his revolver slowly around the hallway corner. There was a dimly lit row of lockers, sitting adjacent to a tinted checkpoint. A small, bulky camera at the end of the hall whirred, glancing back and forth slowly.

 

"Saguaro?" Mike tapped on his earpiece.

 

Ron looked up, taking nearly silent breaths. The shiny metal vent plates above rattled, and a scrabble emerged, growing louder as it neared. Dents, the size of a working man's boots, sank into the ductwork.

 

On the Far Side of the World

"Mike," Gutter radioed over from the Mustang. "There's a guy at your ten o'clock."

 

Gutter and the gang, Ron and Laura, circled past the Nugget Springs Casino, engine run low. It was a nice part of Mexicali, consisting of high rises, casinos, and restaurants, all forever owned and indebted to The Ring. The air on the streets still reeked of red hot chili peppers and some sort of burnt beef. A short man, donning a leather jacket, turned the corner, tapping on his ear.

 

"Everyone ready?" asked Gutter, loading a single round into his revolver. "It's either me or that cocky bastard." He looked up. "And, I hope it ain't gonna be me."

 

And I Bid You Goodnight

The Desert Tower. It rose somewhere on the outskirts of Jacumba Springs, off U.S. 50. The ground there was sacred, holding some sort of energy spiral of old beneath the sands. But, it wasn't sacred enough for Gutter not to step there. 

 

He pulled into town, alongside a Pueblo hotel. The palm trees whipped around, thrashing as he jumped out. The concrete felt good underneath his boots. He unlatched the trunk of his teal 1972 Mustang, and hooted. An M249 SAW machine gun stared back. 

 

"That's one of the nicest guns I've seen in a long time."  Gutter racked the ammunition belt, and punched in a few rounds. "Ka-ching!" he hollered. Laura grinned.