by Peter Ackers
"…YOU KICKED MY PAL IN THE HEAD, AND NOW HE WANTS YOU DEAD…"
There was the remains of a fence separating Farmer Kenner's land from Tattoo-guy's. By "remains" I meant a curving line of widely spaced wooden fenceposts with nothing between them. Had there ever been a boundary between the two plots of land? Had Tattoo-guy removed it to allow his backhoe loader passage? Maybe this fence was part of the one Axe-wielder had torn through and right now three myriad-mile-long wires were curled up into giant steel-wool balls somewhere.
I shook that silliness out of my head.
A minute or so later the pen holding the horse shimmered into existence out of the dark, then, not far beyond, Kenner's farmhouse became solid. It was much smaller than Tattoo-guy's, and the single living-room window was lit - someone was home. I wondered how much noise a horse might make while being shredded by nails.
The phone in my pocket beeped. home said the illuminated display. I flipped it open, which answered the call.
"In the pictures menu, there's one of me, a close-up. Smiling. Long time ago." A pause. Reflecting on the last time he'd smiled? "Show the fucking horse that photo. I want it to see my face before it dies. I want it to think, Oh shit, it's him! I want it to know why. I want that fucking thing living in Hell and regretting what it fucking did." He hung up, leaving me to wonder if animals went to Hell.
Twenty seconds later, I put my hands on the cold metal of the fence, made as it was from long tubes of scaffolding piping. I could smell the horse from here. It looked at me. I was unmissable in my glowing yellow jacket. I hoped Kenner didn't look out of his window.
I was hyped-up and I was ready. I certainly had the energy to throw a thousand kicks at the horse, rend it molecule from molecule. I hauled the phone, and jabbed the redial button.
"I see you now," Tattoo-guy answered immediately. "That fucker's shy, so go on in there and don't worry about his kicks."
Not the best person to tell me that, I thought. I turned to the cripple's farmhouse, which I could see some two-hundred metres away. I waved, as planned.
"Don't stand between us as you kick it," he told me. "I want to see. Find the picture of me and rub it in that fucker's face. Tell it who I am."
"What should I call you?" I said, and then started laughing as I realized how funny that question was - bearing in mind I would be talking to a horse. Another piece of silliness came to me: "Hey, since this is a Spanish Colonial Horse, maybe I should talk to it in Spanish, or it might just look at me and think who's this weirdo?"
"What? What?"
"Can you go on the net? Find the Spanish for, 'You must payo, Dago, because you kicked my pal in the head, and now he wants you dead."
Silence. I think he was catching on to what I was leading up to - hell, I was just catching on myself.
"I can't do this. I won't do this."
A pause. the cripple thinking. Then two-rapid clicks. I knew what that was: he was chambering a round in that high-powered rifle of his. It was meant to scare me - but, strangely, it didn't. Surfer-dude's fucking gin, again. I wanted the recipe.
"I know you know that sound." There was another click, and when he spoke again, his voice sounded a little distant, faded. "That other sound was me putting the cordless phone on the wall. Now I have my rifle in both hands, and both your bollocks in my sights. Kill that fucking animal. Now."
"I only have one bollock. Testicular cancer," I said.
Another pause. Then: "Really?"
I laughed. Then grew serious. "I'm out of this, pal. I'm going home. Nice knowing you. And I already got your vote, Tattoo-guy. You can't get enough of revenge and killing, so we know where you stand."
And with that, I tossed away the mobile phone and started walking. I waited for a shot to ring out, for a bullet to cut my spine in two, but there was nothing. I slipped away into the darkness, not caring which direction I took. The clock on the phone had said the time was closing on one a.m. I still had a good few miles to travel, and needed to be making tracks.
