#64.media

Part twelve:

After a couple minutes, the Honda’s stopped to a halt. 

—!

You go flyin’ forward but catch yourself mid-air. Any thoughts you were thinkin’ were thrown out’cher head and the window.

Unbuckling, you twist your head to face the girl. She’s starin’ back at you, eyes full of a humanity that reminds you of someone’s lack of.

She sucks air through her teeth and looks at you like a kid who’s scratched yer’ car. 

“Um—sorry? Hard driving in wedges.”

“...Mhm.”

You nod rigidly, though you can’t relate at all.

There's silence. 

You don’t know what expression to play or what words to say. You’ve talked to plenty of city folk alike, but never been too good at keepin’ up with them. It’s like they live on a different planet.

Her lips are forced into a thin and uncomfortable lookin’ smile and she’s sittin’ somewhat expectantly. After longer moments of silence, she clears her throat.

“Anyway—s…”

Her jaw crushes the piece of gum from earlier.

“Your stop.”

Took you long ‘nuff.

“Alright then. Take care.”

“Oh—um, you too?”

You hesitate before openin’ the door.

Leavin’ just now don’t seem right. She’s headed for Hollywood alone, ended up in West Texas somehow, and gave a stranger a free ride. If you leave her as is, she may never even make it past the state border. 

And as you’ve assumed the life-long duty of restorin’ the earth’s balance, this ain’t gettin’ past you.

“Best watch yourself, miss. Hollywood’s no more a joke than the south be.”

“...Okay.”

You reach into your pocket and grip your Smith.

“Busted, but still shoots. Aim with a straight eye, bent arm, and don't let anybody buy it off you.”

You hand it to her and she stares down at it, eyes gaping.

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“Uhm—thank you?”

“And I ain’t talkin’ just to talk, don’t mention it or me to anyone.”

“Oh.”

A shiny row of white tile spreads awkwardly across her face and sits there almost fearfully. With her free hand, she fidgets with a strand of her sand colored hair. 

Odd girl. Maybe that’s just how they are ‘cross the coast.

…Or maybe she’s just odd.

Forcin’ your best smile, you exit the vehicle and step onto the sidewalk. It takes a moment until she slowly drives off. 

The outside heat hits immediately. Like rum poured over your body, it stings and lingers on your skin. One step was all it took to break a sweat.

You turn around and assess your surroundings.

A pawn shop.

In the window, a sign flipped on its “open” side sits still. You can see a person behind a glass counter filled with cheap jewelry. 

This place again.

You sigh and take a moment to think.

From your memory, you know that there’s a bowlin’ alley around the corner and a couple o’ blocks down. But you ain’t feelin’ it, not like you used to. 

It's too risky goin’ back anyway. That clerk boy’ll probably ask you questions about that night. And if a certain someone comes looking, that’ll be the first place they check.

Big if.

You remember that there's a bar a few blocks down the sidewalk. The sky’s a darker blue and the sun’s startin’ to hide behind clouds, so you know it’s early evening.

‘Bar should be open.

Watchin’ for cars, you head for the bar. The new pair of llamas thump against the messed up concrete and crush the small pebbles in your way.

You try your best to ignore the heat, but it’s particularly scorchin’ this evening.

After what feels like three minutes, you stop in front of a dingy glassdoor. It seems to be quite full today, you can hear a ruckus just from outside.

Opening the door, you slip inside and make your way to the bartendin’ counter. 

Only a couple stools are open, so you choose the one closest to the exit and sit. The people beside you are semi-shrouded in darkness, but you can make out their silhouettes. They all seem to be drinkin’ away, chuggin’ drink after drink.

Someone behind the counter clears their throat.

“What can I get’chu?”

You can barely see ‘em. He looks to be a young man, brown hair, and you can only see one eye—green as a leaf. Skin’s quite melanated, givin’ him a reddish-brown color. His face is well structured. ‘Could be hispanic; you’d tell better if all the lights were on.

He’s starin’ at you for an answer.

Immediately, a song gets thrusted through your head.

One bourbon,

One—

“Scotch. One scotch.”

The words flow out before you can think against it. The bartender nods his head and moves to fix your drink. 

In about a minute, he slides you the drink and you catch it.

You pour a bit of it into your mouth. It stabs your tongue and scorches the back of your throat, as if it was a smoother drink of rubbing alcohol. 

How do y’all drink this shit?

Takin’ in the atmosphere, you ruminate on what’s transpired. 

It’s not like you’ve never fought with the man called Chigurh. In fact, a good portion of your time together is spent fighting. But, you’ve never fought with the man beneath the name. 

They’re two different entities, you’ve lingered long enough to know that. ‘Why you don’t really call him by that name, not unless you’re in public or something.

You might’ve been the only person to know him past the pseudonym—or whatever it is. At least that’s what his face told you the first time he noticed, all those years ago. He responded better that way, but now he won’t respond at all.

No matter how much you tell yourself that you’ve fought like this before, you can’t stop your hurt and worry. The last fight you had was of this caliber and it ended with the same silence. 

You can’t remember the exact year, only that it was near seventy-eight. 

Y’all were drivin’ along an empty highway in Del Rio. You’d been workin’ under Joscar for half a decade together. You’d practically become a whole unit, functionin’ on the same wavelength and such.

‘Both had finally finished the job he gave. 

Wasn’t easy workin’ for an ex-narco, helpin’ him get rid of the people after him, y’know. It was worth the time and injury, it opened up new horizons for your work and validated your purpose in doing so. For Chigurh, just another job done. But for the man underneath the name, you knew he felt somethin’ similar.

‘Shame he was such a goddamn lunatic, we could’a have somethin’ for a little longer.

‘Brings you back to the motel.

Would it have turned out any different if we held out just a little longer…

You take another sip of your scotch and it goes down smoother. It brings an unfamiliar heat to your face, but you don’t pay it no mind. He would’ve done the same. ‘Leads you to wonder how he’s manage intoxication, how he’d act like.

Bet he’d hate it.

The thought brings some warmth to your core, but melancholy takes over quickly. You can’t wrap your head around it. No matter what you do, you can’t seem to stop hurtin’ and findin’ any reason to bring him up.

Even in the midst of holdin’ back wet bullets from your eyes, you can't help but think…

‘Least he’s the one makin’ me feel this type’a way.

You know that it took years for you to see him again and this time may be no different. But you pray the weirdest prayer, one to the very chance he believes in, that he may find you soon again. Hopin’ to resolve whatever it is between y’all.

But it’s all in vain, you know it is. The chance he believes in ain’t real.

And you can’t stop remindin’ yourself, the only reason for anythin’ being resolved in the past had everythin’ to do with chance. That chance may never find you again.

So, all you can do now is reminisce.

You take a long drag of your drink and finish it. Heat rushes to your face and makes your head feel heavier between yer’ shoulders. You stay on the stool and watch the bartender interact with his patrons.

Part nine:

You lay naked under the cheap sheets of your bed, starin’ blankly at the ceiling. 

The room’s dark—light’s been off for an hour now. You’ve been up for thirty minutes because you can’t sleep. 

The man in the other bed hit the hay a while ago, but you haven’t heard any snorin’ yet. His body’s enveloped in darkness so all you can see is the outline of his figure, layin’ upright with arms tucked over his blanket.

He’s just like you remember—exactly the same man you left him to be all those years ago. 

You were the lone grifter you always had been, takin’ any job available. 

Money was never the reason, you earned a’plenty with every little thing ya’ did. Griftin’ was just somethin’ you were used to, it was all you knew how to do. And it was easy, still got a real knack for it now.

The world looked down on your profession—on people like yourself. But it didn’t matter to you, it wasn’t your fault. If you didn’t take care of the world’s mess, it’d be smothered by its own filth. 

You’re only the world’s cleaner, a handler of nature restorin’ the world’s balance. And that’s all that mattered.

But the day you met him, your entire purpose was challenged. 

You can’t recall the year—only that it was an early nineteen-seventy-something. It was pitch black out and you were at some bar. 

You were makin’ a contract with a handler named Joscar. 

He was a short, tan feller with a Mexican face and a smoker’s voice. Each time he spoke or laughed, a tooth of bright gold would blind you.

‘Was an ex-narco, had some big guys on him and wanted them gone. ‘Offered a briefcase full of cash in exchange. He said you would have help as he contracted some other “fixer.”

After you took the job, you remember leavin’ the bar and steppin’ into the night. Someone was followin’ you, someone with the most careful footsteps.

You stopped a yard away from the bar, turned around and there he was, five feet away. A tall, pale man who mirrored the average West Texan in every aspect ‘cept two. 

The first was his expression. Most would say that almost any country hoss ain’t smile at strangers, that they got a cold look to them. But this was different, you could see it in his eye that cold was all the look he could muster. 

The second was his haircut. It was like he’d been jailed in the sixties and just got out. It was a dark brown, slightly overgrown, executive cut. The kind ya’ would’ve seen Chuck Connors parade around years ago. 

He was just standin’ there, staring straight at you. All you remember doin’ was asking a singular question.

Somethin’ along the lines of: “Buck Owens, that you?”

You chuckled right after, just once though. His eyes flickered with somethin’ you couldn’t name back then.

After a silence, you remember he responded with: “Your partner.”

His voice was an eclectic monotone. It reverbed with an indistinctly-accented baritone, and lingered well after he spoke.

You nodded and asked somethin’ like: “H’what they call you?”

 He glared at you through a longer silence, then fixed his lips to speak. 

And all you recall him sayin’ was: “Anton [Sehgueer].”

The last part shot right through your ears, unintelligible until you saw it in writin’ a long time after. He was—or rather—went by Anton Chigurh. 

‘Least that’s what his contract read.

You sigh. 

You’ve got a long day ahead, but still can’t sleep. The sky hasn’t lightened up yet, so there’s still some time left for rest.

Movin’ to roll onto your side, you freeze. There’s a dark figure at the side of your bed, loomin’ over you.

“Shouldn’t be standin’ with that leg of yours.”

The figure stays still, so you sit up.

“What’chu want?”

You reach across the nightstand and turn on the lamp. The view’s blurred at first but gradually comes into focus.

He’s still naked, just as you are, and bleedin’ from the forehead. The skin under his eyes has darkened to a grey color. His right leg’s bent as he leans on his left.

“I kept my word.”

He glares down at you while you process his words.

You tilt your head.

“...Still goin’ on about that?”

He only continues to glare. You glance back at his right leg, it ain’t gone’ heal quick if he keeps this up.

You pat the side of your bed.

“Si’down.”

A silence.

Carefully, he lowers himself onto the bed and sits right beside you.

You grab a small, dark bottle of hydrogen peroxide off the nightstand, twist it open then tear the seal. You rip open a clear plastic bag of cotton pads, take one, and pour the liquid onto it. You raise the wet pad to his forehead and begin cleaning, he only watches. 

You peer into his eyes, clear but clouded with darkness. 

“If by keepin’ your word you mean nearly killin’ me, then I’d agree that you did.”

He stays silent for a moment, then…

“Are you dead?”

The question makes you pause.

“Haven’t you had enough fight for today? Quit bein’ such an asshole.”

“I kept my word.”

“Enough.”

You stop lookin’ at him, shiftin’ your gaze onto his forehead. But he grabs your wrist and leans in closer, forcin’ you to look at him.

“I kept my word.”

“Enough.”

“I kept my word.”

Grabbin’ the sides of his head, you pull his face right against yours.

“Enough.”

He pauses for a few beats, then pushes his face closer.

“I kept my word.”

Your nose tips touch and his breath hits your lips.

“Don’t you speak English? I said en—ough.”

“I kept my wor—”

Forcin’ his head slightly upward, your mouth strikes his. Your teeth collide as you steal his breath. He freezes, lips still parted.

Then, a hand grips your wrist and attempts to yank you off. Ya’ don’t budge. 

Instead you deepen the kiss, quickly slidin’ out the sheets and standin’ on your knees. Your lips wrestle his with a vehemence only he could drive out of you.

Only once you run out of air do you stop, nippin’ his bottom lip hard enough to tear it. Then you pull away. His blood stains your lips and you leave it there.

“Enough.”

He just sits there, eyes wider than the moon. 

Slowly, he leans his whole body closer, pushin’ himself between your legs. You keep your grip on his face as he continues.

“Do you think…this changes the outcome?”

His voice rings low and quiet, brushin’ on your lips.

You close your legs around his waist.

“I ain’t gone’ tell you what you want to hear. Luck kept your word, not’chu.”

Suddenly, you lay down and pull him over. His cold, dense body smashes against yours. He keeps himself up with his hands, they’re placed on either side of you.

His eyebrows touch each other as he stares at you blankly. You know it ain’t what you did that threw him off, it’s what you said.

“Go to sleep, I got shy’t to do tomorrow.”

As he keeps frozen, you sit up and reach past him to turn off the light.

He rolls himself off to the side and just lays there, upright.

With a sigh, you lay down, pull the blanket over ya’ll, and close your eyes.

“Sleep.”

“What was meant to happen happened. That isn’t luck.”

Flippin’ your eyelids open, you roll over and hold your head up with your arm. 

You huff, amused by his audacity.

“What the fuck did I tell you?”

You can hear his body roll over.

“Your opinions aren’t fact. You weren’t meant for death by my hand, therefore you did not die.”

“Who could guess that you of all people got a mouth bigger than your head?”

“That isn’t luck.”

You sigh.

“Say what you want, still won’t change my mind. I already told you, I ain’t gone’ tell you what you want to hear.”

“If I had left you there, would you have survived?”

“If I had left you there, would you have survived?”

He falls silent for a moment.

“What was meant to happen happened.”

You scoff.

“Because you made it happen.”

“There is no difference between us.”

With your free hand, you hold the bridge of your nose.

“Shush, go to sleep.”

A puff of air hits your face.

“Your opinion is not fact.”

“Keep runnin’ that mouth.”

“Your opinion ain—t fact.”

A low chuckle escapes you.

“Think you're so funny, huh?”

You release your nose bridge and feel his face, slidin’ your fingers down to grip his chin.

“You like botherin’ me?”

Your thumb glides along his bottom lip. He lets you do as you please.

“There is no difference between us.”

With your thumb, you pull down his lip and he continues to let you.

“I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

A grunt vibrates through his chest and against yours. Lettin’ go of his lip, you slither your fingers to the back of his head and clutch his hair.

You press your mouth against his. He pauses at first, then eases into it.

A small simper plays on your lips.

“Haven’t changed, the last I saw you.”

“Mm…”

With the tip of your tongue, you feel the cut on his bottom lip and clean it up. When you put it away, he does the same to yours. Before he can put it back in his mouth, you suck on it. He tastes like somethin’ metallic, nothin’ more than blood. You aren’t sure whether it’s yours or his that you’re tasting.

He huffs through his nose, so do you.

“To sleep.”

His hand grips your jaw abruptly and he steals your breath, mouth against yours. 

As you try to pull him off and counter his subversion, he parts your lips with his tongue and deepens the kiss arbitrarily. Once you run out of air, he pulls away.

You catch your breath.

“...Really?”

You scoff.

“Okay, let's go then.”

Placin’ a leg onto his hip, you pull yourself over him and straddle his lap. Before he can react, you hold his arms down and return the kiss.

His mouth fights back, returnin’ the vehemence you had shown him. An arm of his breaks free and grips the back of your head. As he attempts to pull you off, a stiff mass slowly rises against you.

You break the kiss and take a breath, you feel his quiet pantin’ against your mouth. 

“Got it all out of your system?”

He pushes the back of your head and forces you into another kiss, slidin’ his tongue against yours. 

As a small gasp escapes you, you grind against his pelvis. His breath stills momentarily. 

Then he lets go of your head and sits up. With his free hand, he pushes you down. As you’ve kept your grip on his other wrist, he falls down with you. 

He pins you by your wrist while you hold his.

“You would have died if you were meant to die.”

“And if I was meant to die, would you have killed me?”

Your legs wrap around his waist and you pull him flush against you. 

He falls silent, then fixes his lips to speak.

“Are you done?”

“With this conversation or with you?”

A silence.

Then slowly, he just rests against you and you just let him. You’re used to sleepin’ in uncomfortable situations so this is fine. You close your eyes, let go of his wrist, and retire your hands on his back.

As you drift, you think of what tomorrow’ll bring you two. Whether he’ll stay or go.