Last Impressions

Songs and Bad Decisions

Photo by Nong on Unsplash

Fellech’s biggest shock wasn’t his head smacking the window sill. 

The smack hurt and enraged him further than he was already enraged–at himself, at his employer, at his life– but he would have bet the Audi he just sold against a cinnamon cruller with a bite out of it that he would bleed everywhere. But he did not bleed.

There would be a knot, a lump, something that resembled a bird’s egg that grew out of his skull, but not much he could do.

He flopped back down on the new mattress, still not out of the plastic. This time he made sure to flop well clear of the window and sill.

The stop in Reno had been ill-advised, meeting Ganitz, pathetic Ganitz, forty three and still snorting meth like he was a roadie for a British Metal band called Hades Vortex or something, but not roadieing, just slumming in Reno, chaperoning bachelor party dancers and packing a scuffed Smith & Wesson with one bullet in it.