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Night Game

May 7, 2006

As fast as I dared, steam parting an instant prior to the windshields’ intrusion, green-black razor grass grabbed at the truck while I slipped and spatted my way through. I slowed to blast the guards awake and hit the left, onto the other road, down and away, getting a little air, more puddles and night, warm sucking me on, canopy visible now, just drive fast and slide, stuffing the brake to the floor at the flat spot topped with gravel and crushed shell.
I cut the engine and got out, allowing inertia to pass my hair and face and go on, breezing through me where I stood. Indigo silence.
Engine clicks, clack of the riot gun racking. I reached the .380 out of the holster stuck rear middle of my waist band. Rough-weave stuff against my softer hide never let me forget a deathly potential. I didn’t ever want to overlook the piece, to forget its location is certain death some day.
“Mono” ? Because I was up before the beasts, every day; before the freakishly shrill, deafening Howler monkeys were up, sounding their feeding call.
His plaitive tone, straight through his nose, his part in the game we played. Pitch fucking black, I could never tell which way he was to come out of the jungle. The bolt snapped in the 12 gauge. Stick-gun done.
“Culebra”?, Ever since he brought a little Boa and tossed it on my desk one morning. In those few moments he was going to have more fun than he’d enjoy the rest of his day. Unless he pinga-pinga’d the night cleaning woman again.
No fun riding the Diablo to the boat lanch, or the canoe to his village on an island in the water, to eat and sleep, then prepare to get back in the canoe, back on the bus.
My safety ticked in the dawning gray mist. The snake stepped forth.
I put away my pistol. He knew it had been out. He knew my gun was loaded and trusted no one. Had He not come out, I would fire. That was the fun part.

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