palms wet with sweat, gliding off the body of a flashlight which drops to the ground with a hollow  thud. the sound of his own heartbeat pumping hot in his ears like he’s running on a bad trip in the middle of a high end acid party in l.a., frantic  to cross the sea of tripping dancers to reach safe haven at the bar. the tightness in his chest from a recent sprint, dried-up mud underneath his fingernails, impossible to get off. he knows panic when he feels it.  has known it since he’d first been caught cheating at cards in the rundown bar his daddy used to visit, knows it by the chill that creeps up his spine at the sight of a street-sign yellow apron visible from behind the splintered wood of a barnyard shack. knows it by the breath that catches in his throat as he throws the locker’s door shut, just in time to disappear from his pursuer’s sight and just in time to lock with blue eyes, hidden behind the grid of a locker opposite the room. maybe, just maybe, the behemoth would simply pass, not bother to waste his time in search of what had alerted him. and if he didn’t – it was a game of chance with luck in his favour. c’est la vie, stranger.
\    STARTER.  @folkinghell.    /
