“It was eleven in the morning but the lips were dry as the desert. The throat searched every bit of saliva to make a living.
The man sat right in front of me. Marco was a name common within goons.
I realised every name can hold it’s bearer and so did his, perhaps.
“So, Miss do you want to torture me? If so, I can come with you. If you want me to stick my ass on this bench for any bit longer, you might have to repent your decision. Thus, I would advice you to carry me wherever you want since my bums burn from the heat growing each hour on the bench.” Marco chided grimly and solemnly.
I looked towards the doorway and my men came up, tied his hands and carried the shriveled body, dragging it out for some distance and lifting it, the rest until they reached the car parked outside the motel.
“Are you some police?” The man on the desk whispered his words. The breath was strong and stinging. It might have been just a few minutes ago when he might have gulped down a draught or two.
“No, I am his death.” I replied as I paid him the bill.
“Death knows none,
for death is never fun.
Why make death when
love can conquer all men.” The man chimed.
“I am Vassili by the way, drop in anytime you are crossing over to the other side.” He smiled. His brown teeth flattered his smile as the bark of wood flatters the tree.
“You mean from life to death?” I tried having some fun now that the prize was all mine.
“Noooo, I meant the bridge.” He was confused. His poetry caught Marco or Marco’s caught Vassili could not be told at this stage.