My room is a beautiful accident. Of course beauty is the eye of the beholder.

Windows- two of them. Each side of the room. The light falls in wonderful spots on my bed through ALL of the damn bullet holes. Funny how two of them land on my eyelids every morning. The sun makes a wonderful alarm clock, and one that I can afford. Not from Japan either.

And don't get me started on the heating here. Really, something to simply behold, and be amazed at. It's so good, I sleep in nothing. Not even underwear (I might if I had a pair, though). Because every god damn day it's at least 110 degrees inside. I bought a fan the other day from Jank. It didn't work. Jank's an asshole, by the way. But that's implied by that white (more yellow actually) piece of junk in the corner right there

Clothes everywhere. I only wear basically two (wildly attractive, I'll add if you're a lady. If you're not, you didn't hear that. If you're gay, you definitely didn't hear that) outfits. One is a minimalistic, but still accented white tank top, grease stains really adding that urban, abusive-stepfather feel that's all the rage. With abusive-stepfathers especially.

The other is my illegal clothes. No, the clothes aren't illegal, dipshit (there's only a couple instances in illegal clothes, anyway. in the (unreligious parts, anyway) US at least). No, these are clothes for dirty work. Pretty different than abusive-stepfather clothes. Which could also be illegal clothes if their name meant more than its look.

But let’s face it, who the hell would marry me? And if someone was stupid enough to, they would obviously be too stupid to fill out divorce papers, much less find the door here.

Did I mention the door?

Yeah, it's not there.

Ask me why, I dare you.

Chapter 2 ______

I mentioned 'illegal' clothes. If you're cops and live near a trailer in the Mojave, forget I said illegal and focus only on the fact that they're suits, with gloves. Actually, clothes with gloves in the Mojave are enough to show you that something fishy is happening.

For the sake of everyone not a cop, I'll cut to the chase already.

I'm the mail man. Or the paperboy. Call me either one. My name tells you more than the average 'friend' I've had could. I deliver the mail, whatever it may be. Especially dangerous mail, that nobody wants to get fingerprints on/accidentally explode/accidentally get drugged/accidentally get caught by the police and get put on death row/get caught by any other illegal organization that decides that my mail is actually there's and feel like laying me off.

I run my business with a guy I’ve mentioned. Notice how I’ve said I don’t have any real friends. “But paperboy (or mail man, seriously, I’m open to whichever one you prefer. Go ahead, don’t be shy or anything, this isn’t part of your question, this is just me thinking out loud not actually out loud), if you work with already-named-man you MUST be best friends with him! Right?”

Well, no, I don’t have to. In fact, I hate Jank’s guts. We’re partners in crime (cops, in my native language ‘crime’ means Native American burial grounds. Trust me), nothing more. Because friendship tends to get in the way of drugs, prostitution, shooting people, and biking around the desert.

What does Jank even do though? He’s the manager. He’s the ‘smart’ one, went to college for more than a day, had two parents growing up, never killed someone, is a virgin, and never really tried to pawn off a door. So he’s the opposite of me.

Oh, and I guess he also has a million dollars just happening to be under his toilet. Just, you know, laying around. Plus the massive amount of marijuana (we don’t use it, I swear) inside of his even massive-r collection of piggy banks.

We’re partners in crime, complete enemies, and neighbors.

Oh, did I mention we don’t live together? Yeah, we’re neighbors. If you happen upon the totally not suspicious pair of trailers just hanging out in the Mojave, that may or may not be us.

Welcome to our rendition of the Brady Bunch, minus the majority of the Brady Bunch and typical white-American-family-traditions such as not breaking laws for the larger part of your life and only using your stockpile of weapons on paper targets.

Oh, a stockpile of weapons? This forced exposition just keeps getting better, doesn’t it?\

Chapter 3 ______

I knew that something had gone massively bananas when the bullet-hole sun hit my eyes and Jank was standing over me holding a gun.

The look on his face said more than his words- “We gotta go.”

I peeled apart a couple shades and tried to be less blinded by that Mojave sun. We DID have to go. REALLY had to go. There were six or seven men, all cops, standing outside Jank’s trailer. These weren’t nightstick- taser-cops, either. They had guns out, and weren’t idly chatting. And it didn’t look like they would be willing to do that with us too. My eyes met Jank’s shades, and waved my hand a couple of times. He tossed me the gun. It was time to either kill a LOT of people, or get on my bike and go faster than the nonexistent wind.

Jank’s face told me it was time for the former.

Chapter 4 ______

Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. That’s all I would have to do- pull a trigger six times and make sure that none of these people got back up.

I was behind my trailer- peeking at the men beginning to get inside of Jank’s trailer. They weren’t talking- this was bad. If they couldn’t even have an awkward (hopefully nonsexual) conversation about how hot it was out here, it means they were intending to pull the trigger as many times as I was. One to kill, another to make sure I was dead, and maybe a couple more because they don’t get to do it this much.

I would wait until they began to leave. I would have them stuck inside Jank’s trailer, pinned in that hellhole with seven officers. Shoot them one by one? Try to get them with one bullet?

That last one was a little farfetched.

My feet were tapping as the last one shuffled inside. Breathing heavy, arms heavy, the pistol’s grip already slick with sweat. God damn, it’s just a trigger pull. The desert was especially hellish today, only about three cacti are in view from our ‘houses’. It’s so damn hot, a couple DIED. Yes, cacti couldn’t take the heat. Sometimes I wish I couldn’t either, and I could have a logical conversation with Jank about relocating. He would just be an asshole about it, that’s for sure.

Enough stalling. Enough thinking. Thinking of removing someone from the world makes it a philosophical. If you can set up that steel curtain between your brain and the universe and just push a button, pull a trigger- it’s as easy as it really is.

I was in plain view- if the cop standing guard awkwardly outside turned around, or I sneezed, or breathed too hard, or took a step- I would break that dry silence and very likely never be able to tell Jank to fuck off ever again.

Now or never.

Hold breath, raise gun, absorb the silence, quiet my mind, see his ear above my barrel-

The snapping noise nearly split my ears. The bullet did split his ears. Dead on arrival, gravity gave the dead man a tab on the back and he was suddenly slumped against Jank’s trailer.

“COME OUT FUCKERS!” I screamed. I was a tiger at this point, striking blood and ready to strike more. Maybe even eager.

My body was without a brain, and that helped me in every sense. My feet sprinted straight into Jank’s trailer. Fearlessly, heedlessly, gloriously.

“NOBODY MOVE!” My mouth said.

Nobody moved.

“Now put the toys down real slow.”

Six clacks. A pile of guns that could probably be sold, or even used. Certainly be delivered to a buyer.

It was silent. The desert’s complete lack of noise swallowed the air again, and I had time to notice how sweaty every part of me was. I pointed my gun at the cop on the farthest right.

“Mustache,” I boomed. Confident, crazy, bloodthirsty.

His face looked at me. Fear was in his eyes, but his quivering, handlebar mustache sealed the deal.

“You heard the one gunshot. That was the sound of your watchdog’s ear getting blown into his skull.”

“Everyone here see mustache?”

The trailer was so small, dense with so many policemen. All looked to be young, fit, tan, and facial-hair free. Hence why mustache was, and could be, singled out. He was none of those, and looked as if his pants had just been ruined. I assumed my face could do that while I was a tiger.

“Mustache here is going to get his ear blown off if y’all don’t line up outside of this trailer in 10 seconds or less.”

I could see by the smirk on one of the officers that Mustache wasn’t really respected. The knowing smirk of at least three sealed the deal. Frankly, no one gave a shit about Mustache.

Ten seconds went by slower than a church mass. A new record for hostages. An eternity in death-is-possible time. Everyone was holding back a smirk, save Mustache. He seemed to be breathing hard, gulping in air like a fish. It was as though he wanted to save as much air as possible for when he would be no longer breathing.

“Times up.” Mustache’s mustache was nonexistent after my second, deafening, snap. Bang.

Someone thought they were smart and made a little fist pump to one of his buddies. Both couldn’t hold in their laughter.

Bang. Third snap. Hard to be smart without brains, I think he’ll find.

Killing an actually likable, mustache-free guy seemed to actually put some ripples in the water. There was even a gasp from Brains’ friend as some of his brains splattered on his badge.

People were ready to listen. And I was ready to speak. My eyes scanned the kitchen counter to my right. Pots, pans, dirty dishes, clean dishes, and all kinds of garbage were stacked near a sink. I took a bottle from the garbage pile.

I waved it around for a second, teeth showing in a way that either looked badass or completely stupid. A snicker told me the answer.

Bang.

Gasp.

Attention.

“Let’s play spin the bottle.” I was feeling inhuman that day, sorry if you have a soul.

Every one of my movements was drawn out. Every movement of the cops was noted. Especially the quivering in fear.

Scrraaaaaaaaaape. The bottle spun real slow, taking it’s time to choose a victim.

That’s when some asshole decided that now would be a good time to throw a live grenade into the slumber party and ruin the fun.

I was the (only) lucky one- being right next to the door, I took a less than graceful swan dive into some cracked dirt just as the air behind me erupted in flames and my hearing went out.

That’s about when I blacked out.

Chapter 5 ______

And was promptly awoken by the rare, but powerful force that is a seriously pissed off Jank.

Words can’t describe what exactly his face looks like when he’s royally angry at all existence. I suppose the best way is if you had a tomato. And it had more wrinkles than you could count on its forehead- err, the top of the tomato. And the tomato’s eyes- well, actually eyes that you would press into the tomato, were so squinted and the tomato’s brow so furrowed-

Let’s just cut the shit and say that his face was red and he looked like he could shoot anyone that said something smart.

“How’s my little alarm clock today?” I sputtered, trying to keep from laughing in his face about how ridiculous it looked.

Luckily he didn’t have a gun, but unluckily he punched me in the balls and picked me up onto my feet by my shoulders.

“Look-“ – he could barely speak- “We. Are. Literally. Broke. Now. Do. You. Fucking. Understand. Me!”

As a matter of fact, I almost couldn’t understand him. But he ripped the shades off of my window and pushed my face against the glass, giving me a less than perfect view of…

A burning trailer.

Of course, the trailer that was the former home of an ungodly amount of weed and 10,000 smirking Benjamin Franklin’s.