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."

 

A mumbling of both "Sure," and "No" came from the back seat. "Okay," Gutter stepped out onto the cold streets, coated with the last vestiges of the burning Sun. The sky was a pink and orange blur, a nice addition to the block's ancient neon lighting. The three of them crept alongside the Casino's broad, rough hewn stone walls, guns drawn.

 

Mike entered the main lobby, a dazzling room with a shimmering mobile of metal panels, which diffused the warm neon glow onto the scarlet carpeting. "The Cards of Death," they called them, since they seemed to fall unpredictably. He crouched, then laid on the carpet with a bulletproof blanket strewn across his belly.

 

"Pa!" he beckoned to the guards, waving his arms. Ron, Laura, and Gutter closed in on the entrance. "Is that you, pa?" 

 

 "I ain't your pa," an Englishman among the crew said.

 

"Pa, I got the gold right here..."  

 

Ron entered slowly, catching the eye of another guard in the group. "Hold it right there, poncho," the guard spoke with tattered English. "What's he talkin' about?"

 

"He's gone crazy," Ron replied, taking a step back. He put a hand on his holster.

 

Mike continued, "The gold we got from the Saguaros, pa. I got it, under this blanket." He shuffled his hands underneath.

 

"Take a look under that blanket," the Englishman said.

 

"Got it right here..." 

 

A guard lifted up the weighted blanket quickly, glancing away for a second. Within that second, Mike cocked back the hammer of his revolver, and fired away, sending the man sliding down the lobby floor, into a junky slot machine.

 

The lobby became a rage room for bullets and shrapnel, embedding themselves into the classy stone walls, pinging off the Cards of Death, or rebounding into the carpet. 

 

"Pancho," another man yelled, fleeing down an adjacent corridor with a hurried look on his face. 

 

"They're here."

 

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Written by Jerry Zervas on 6/12/26.

DO NOT USE UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION BY ME (i.e. email me)