If I make it to the lake maybe the twenty ton meteor I’m dragging might feel less like a load.
Jacket, gloves, hat, boots, dog, collar, leash. It feels like a sepia tone, monotone, monotonous chore.
Four scrappy, grungy, mean looking dudes (straight out of a redneck murder flick set in absolutely NOwhere) dressed in FULL hunting gear stand by the water’s edge cocking rifles. RIFLES, a friggin’ case full of them.
Is that even legal? The bridge clearly states DO NOT CROSS, muthafo.
…I make a mental note of the license plate, gray four door something or other.
Should I run? Dare turn my back? Will the greasers shoot my dog?
Play it cool, take it in very long strides. You’re being ridiculous.
I spot a man parked at the opposite end of the park and speed up. (yay cardio, fuck off fatty liver)
The fellow seems pleasant enough, but what’s up with the 15 or so credit cards sprawled out on the dash?!!!? UGH.
“Need a phone?” he offers with a nod and a dirty smile.
GROSS, HELL NO. “Nah, gonna wait until I’m out of here,” (like twenty traffic lights between me and this shady situation).
“Detective’s daughter.” I throw that it out into the universe, force of habit and good luck charm.
Shit man I have got to chill with the Killing marathons, except Holder is hot.
Death by duck.
I feel lighter, must be the sweat across my brow.