Going all biblical on your Ass in Flash friday, August 9th 2013

Prompts provided by Pit-bull Felonious, underboss to Pit-bull of the Steppes leader of The Pit bulls of Babylon Gang. Respect.

He should have fed them also with the finest of the wheat: and with honey out of the rock should I have satisfied thee. --- Psalms 81; 14 KJV

Is there no balm in Gilead; is there no physician there? Why then is not the health of the daughter of my people recovered? --- Jeremiah 8:22 KJV

By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion.---Psalms 137;1 KJV

She was just West of Flagstaff when the first round hit. No one made her for it, the other side of that coin is the second round made it so she would never be whole. The radio swelled with the reddening of mesas and arroyos just north of Albuquerque. The morning edition was hitting stoops in Kansas City. She pulled to the side of the road to pray.

She had forgotten how, perhaps, I don’t know. The letter read that she was no longer allowed to pray. The letter read there was no honey in the rocks, no manna in the desert, no balm in Gilead. I think she had forgotten how to pray. She was a long way from KC when the first round hit, no one made her for it. The letter didn’t mention me, five grand, or the pool of blood under the husk of Jeremiah Berger. There was no pool of blood, but that’s how she had pictured it, what she had paid for. I put the first round in the soft tissue of his belly; drug him to the Motel eight’s pink tub and I preached him. Five grand worth I preached as he writhed and his life slugged down the drain slow. The second slug was just a signature.

She was just a payday and then she wasn’t. She was just a customer. I found the body. Too damn much coincidence. I left KC for LA and I just kept driving, zig zagging, down to 10 up to 66 a little blue highway turnaround and back down. I saw her car on the shoulder. I fell in love with her corpse. I fell in love with God. I fell in love with irony. And there I wept. I swapped cars.

I sold the piece to a quick boy, a kid sporting a blue bandana, trying to make his bones; nothing hides a piece quicker than a second shooter. Bandana boys never roll over. I sold the car to a chop shop off Alvarado. I knew this guy in lock down who lost his shit and couldn’t stop washing his hands. Took three guards to take him down. I never saw him again. You can’t wash the blood off your hands, ever, but you can clean them.

I walked down Alvarado and turned at the first seven crossroads, left, right. I bought a taco across from a church and stared at the neon cross burning white even in the daylight. I bought a second taco. That’s all the more I have to say.