"All Dead Men Pay Their Debts"
By John Amaruso
The scene opens with the view of the bathroom door on the side of a gas station. The sound of a running faucet is muffled through the dirt stained door.
Inside a man is washing blood off of a large knife. His hands clenching a towel, the man with scrupulous care cleanses the weapon. His eyes fixated downward at the knife, the dirtied mirror reflects his face.
Our character exits the bathroom and walks to an idling '88 Grand marquis. Black as night, the car rumbles and hums in procession.
The view from inside the dark trunk reveals a man standing over it. Wearing a tough black winter jacket, the man's demeanor is calm and emotionless. The stubble on his face masks his rat like features. His dirty blonde hair hangs to his brows. Inside the trunk a rolled up carpet hides a bloodied body. The man tosses the knife on top of the carpet, creating a thud noise as it bounces off the carpet and onto the trunk floor.
Three figures are outlined in the back windshield as the car's brake lights light up the night. Two in the front, one in the backseat. It exits the station and into the cool air.
The sound of the whipping air passing by the car is the static that fills their ears. The driver, a large, husky bearded man, controls the over-sized steering wheel as they travel over the solitary road. With deep set eyes and a bald head, he resembles a worn out but eerily mischievous bearded judge.
The man in the passenger seat is gaunt and tall. His meager wrists exposes the bones connecting to his hands. As his elbow leans against the window, he rests his chin into his hand, looking out the window at the passing scenery of nothingness. His scraggy posture makes him more or less the runt of the group.
Our character, the rat faced man, sits in the backseat with an almost mirror image of the passenger. Peering out through the window, he looks out into the vast openness that surrounds them. The desert sand lining the road is kicked up as the car passes.
Pensive, our character thinks to himself.
The murder was cold, quick, and surprisingly simple he thought. No dramatics, no struggle, nothing. Just like a man turns on a light switch, it was over in an instant. An entire existence ended in an instant. A potential future erased from the pages of history. A shameful death for a man who made a few mistakes with the wrong people.
"What a sorry son of a bitch." he murmurs under his breath. His stoic position in the backseat exudes an aura of deep thought.
"The poor guy's gutted in a gas station bathroom along some dirt road in the middle of nowhere by a couple of rag tag hired hands. All because he made a few mistakes with the wrong people."
He thinks to himself how much more pathetic it is that he was the one to deliver such judgment upon him. Who was he? he thought. Just another soul lost in a world that showed him no mercy. Struggling for his next dollar, hustling for the next high, doing despicable things to obtain both.
Just another worthless bastard who would murder a man in cold blood for a few bucks. A man who's actions had not hurt him. He let these thoughts swirl and foment as the car trembled down the road.
This man may have been in the same vicinity as he at some other point in his life. He was from Stockton after all. Not too far from where he grew up. He could have been a cashier at a shop he once stopped in. The man could have been a passerby on a busy street one day. Hell, he could have very well once been a friend of his, an acquaintance. Regardless, he did not know who the man was. He did know what became of him though.
Miles down the road, all is quiet with the exception of the whipping air. The tension is palpable as the car grumbles down the road. A few bumps in the road and all three men move with the friction. The bearded judge looks into his rear view, then back at the road, then back into the rear view. Breaking the silence, he looks at our character.
"A dead man always pays his debts".
Our character looks into the bearded judge's eyes through the mirror. The bearded judge's eyes stare back momentarily, then drift back to the road ahead.
The cryptic message resonates through his consciousness.
Indeed, all dead men pay their debts.
The car pulls over at another gas station. Leaving the car running, our character exits the backseat and heads into the store.
The scene cuts to our character in the bathroom, dipping his fingertips into the water filled sink. Splashing his face a few times he turns the sink faucet off. Holding himself up by the sink, he pauses for a moment. He looks upward into the mirror. Peering into himself, he is deep in thought. He takes in a deep breath and exhales slowly through his nose. He closes his eyes and grips the sink tightly.
"How did it come to this?" he thinks to himself.
Looking back up into the mirror he lets out another deep inhale. The sink lets out a last droplet of water. All is calm.
He turns around to exit the bathroom. As suddenly as he blinks, he is chest to chest with a man. The man grabs the back of his neck and thrusts a knife into his gut, twisting it quickly. With a loud grunt, blood is violently ejected from his mouth. It splatters onto the wall behind the assailant.
Everything goes black.
The scene opens up again and the running of a faucet sink is muffled through the bathroom door, eerily lasting for a few moments.
The scene shifts to the car, black as the night, rumbling and humming in procession.
The view from inside the dark trunk reveals a man standing over it.
Inside the trunk a rolled up carpet hides the bloodied body of our character. The man tosses the knife on top of the carpet.
Three figures are outlined in the back windshield as the car's brake lights light the night. It exits the station and into the night's cool air.
By John Amaruso
The scene opens with the view of the bathroom door on the side of a gas station. The sound of a running faucet is muffled through the dirt stained door.
Inside a man is washing blood off of a large knife. His hands clenching a towel, the man with scrupulous care cleanses the weapon. His eyes fixated downward at the knife, the dirtied mirror reflects his face.
Our character exits the bathroom and walks to an idling '88 Grand marquis. Black as night, the car rumbles and hums in procession.
The view from inside the dark trunk reveals a man standing over it. Wearing a tough black winter jacket, the man's demeanor is calm and emotionless. The stubble on his face masks his rat like features. His dirty blonde hair hangs to his brows. Inside the trunk a rolled up carpet hides a bloodied body. The man tosses the knife on top of the carpet, creating a thud noise as it bounces off the carpet and onto the trunk floor.
Three figures are outlined in the back windshield as the car's brake lights light up the night. Two in the front, one in the backseat. It exits the station and into the cool air.
The sound of the whipping air passing by the car is the static that fills their ears. The driver, a large, husky bearded man, controls the over-sized steering wheel as they travel over the solitary road. With deep set eyes and a bald head, he resembles a worn out but eerily mischievous bearded judge.
The man in the passenger seat is gaunt and tall. His meager wrists exposes the bones connecting to his hands. As his elbow leans against the window, he rests his chin into his hand, looking out the window at the passing scenery of nothingness. His scraggy posture makes him more or less the runt of the group.
Our character, the rat faced man, sits in the backseat with an almost mirror image of the passenger. Peering out through the window, he looks out into the vast openness that surrounds them. The desert sand lining the road is kicked up as the car passes.
Pensive, our character thinks to himself.
The murder was cold, quick, and surprisingly simple he thought. No dramatics, no struggle, nothing. Just like a man turns on a light switch, it was over in an instant. An entire existence ended in an instant. A potential future erased from the pages of history. A shameful death for a man who made a few mistakes with the wrong people.
"What a sorry son of a bitch." he murmurs under his breath. His stoic position in the backseat exudes an aura of deep thought.
"The poor guy's gutted in a gas station bathroom along some dirt road in the middle of nowhere by a couple of rag tag hired hands. All because he made a few mistakes with the wrong people."
He thinks to himself how much more pathetic it is that he was the one to deliver such judgment upon him. Who was he? he thought. Just another soul lost in a world that showed him no mercy. Struggling for his next dollar, hustling for the next high, doing despicable things to obtain both.
Just another worthless bastard who would murder a man in cold blood for a few bucks. A man who's actions had not hurt him. He let these thoughts swirl and foment as the car trembled down the road.
This man may have been in the same vicinity as he at some other point in his life. He was from Stockton after all. Not too far from where he grew up. He could have been a cashier at a shop he once stopped in. The man could have been a passerby on a busy street one day. Hell, he could have very well once been a friend of his, an acquaintance. Regardless, he did not know who the man was. He did know what became of him though.
Miles down the road, all is quiet with the exception of the whipping air. The tension is palpable as the car grumbles down the road. A few bumps in the road and all three men move with the friction. The bearded judge looks into his rear view, then back at the road, then back into the rear view. Breaking the silence, he looks at our character.
"A dead man always pays his debts".
Our character looks into the bearded judge's eyes through the mirror. The bearded judge's eyes stare back momentarily, then drift back to the road ahead.
The cryptic message resonates through his consciousness.
Indeed, all dead men pay their debts.
The car pulls over at another gas station. Leaving the car running, our character exits the backseat and heads into the store.
The scene cuts to our character in the bathroom, dipping his fingertips into the water filled sink. Splashing his face a few times he turns the sink faucet off. Holding himself up by the sink, he pauses for a moment. He looks upward into the mirror. Peering into himself, he is deep in thought. He takes in a deep breath and exhales slowly through his nose. He closes his eyes and grips the sink tightly.
"How did it come to this?" he thinks to himself.
Looking back up into the mirror he lets out another deep inhale. The sink lets out a last droplet of water. All is calm.
He turns around to exit the bathroom. As suddenly as he blinks, he is chest to chest with a man. The man grabs the back of his neck and thrusts a knife into his gut, twisting it quickly. With a loud grunt, blood is violently ejected from his mouth. It splatters onto the wall behind the assailant.
Everything goes black.
The scene opens up again and the running of a faucet sink is muffled through the bathroom door, eerily lasting for a few moments.
The scene shifts to the car, black as the night, rumbling and humming in procession.
The view from inside the dark trunk reveals a man standing over it.
Inside the trunk a rolled up carpet hides the bloodied body of our character. The man tosses the knife on top of the carpet.
Three figures are outlined in the back windshield as the car's brake lights light the night. It exits the station and into the night's cool air.
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