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It was just after 10 p.m. when Sal spotted Pierre hitchhiking on Highway 22. He slowed down to get a good look at him, passing him at about 15 miles an hour. Right height. Fucked up sideburns. Right weight. Hitchhiking. Exactly as Sal imagined him. He stopped a few yards up, turned in the middle of the road and drove back to Pierre.
"Heading back to Owenton?" Pierre called out.
"Yeah, sure. Get in." Sal leaned over the front seat and opened the door.
"Thanks." Pierre pulled a beer can from under his shirt and opened it with a hiss, offering it to Sal. "Want some?"
Sal shook his head.
"Suit yourself."
They turned back toward town and drove for a few miles without talking. Pierre didnt notice when Sal unzipped his fanny pack and pulled the Glock. "Hey. Over here."
Pierre looked over to find the barrel of a gun pointed at his forehead. He dropped his beer over the side of the car.
Sal was driving with one hand, the other arm remained extended. "I know who you are. Now, you dont know me, but I bet you can guess who sent me."
"What is this about?" He was sweating and starting to squirm. "Just tell me what its about and, and youll see. Youll see we can work something out."
"Sorry. You negotiated yourself into this, but you cant negotiate your way out. It has already been decided that this is your fate. Just sit still. Dont move, or Ill blow your brains all over this rental. Were going to get this over with as soon as I find a stretch of woods where we can pull over."
Pierre started crying. "Look man, I swear I dont know what this is about. Just tell me. I dont have any money. I can get some. Is that what you want?"
Sal shook his head. "You got some balls talking to me about money. Know what? No more talking." He eventually turned down a dirt utility road and cut the lights.
"Put your hands on the dashboard."
Pierre did as he was told, saying, "Cant we talk about this?" He started to shake.
Sal pulled on two latex gloves, put a hypodermic between his teeth like a cigarette and stuck the gun to Pierres head. "Get out of the car and walk over there to that tree."
They both hurried out of the car. Pierre had wet his pants. He was crying. "Whats in that needle, man? I dont do drugs. I drink and, and I cheat on my girlfriend, thats all. Shit, is this what this is about? Did Gina do this? Goddamn, just let me go. Ill disappear, Ill..."
"Watch your language." Sal prepared the needle. "Lay down on your back and stop crying. Take a few deep breaths and this will all be over in a minute."
Pierre laid in the damp leaves and took deep, choppy breaths. His arms were crossed on his chest. "Please dont. What is that stuff? Please. Ill just go away. Whatever it is, Ill go away."
Sal put the gun to his head. "Give me your arm." He looked Pierre in the eyes. "If you have any confessions, now is the time."
Pierre let Sal uncross his arms. He squeezed until a suitable vein appeared and injected the burnt russet liquid. He put the needle back in his pack and turned around while the nicotine ran roughshod over Pierres heart muscles. Sal could never watch a kill. All the gurgling, gasping for air and retching in the world was fine. He just couldnt stand to see the last twitches. A mans final moments were personal, Sal felt, and nothing he needed to be a part of.
When the rustling stopped, Sal turned back around. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and shined the tiny flashlight into Pierres eyes to see if he was dead or just in a coma. He was dead. Sal took the hunting knife from his pack and chopped off each of Pierres fingertips, which became messy and took an unfortunate amount of sawing. He wiped down Pierres nose and face with an alcohol swab then destroyed Pierres teeth, chipping them with the chisel and hammer until they were an unrecognizable, jagged crop. He gathered the tooth fragments and the fingertips, sealing them in a small Ziploc bag. The first faint smell of decay was already coming from Pierres mouth. Sal closed the eyes, closed the mouth, and laid the body out flat on his back, legs straight out, arms down by his sides, palms up. Corpse pose. Sal once dated a yoga instructor, and when he found out the name of this pose, he started using it professionally. He loved the symbolism.
Sal backed out slowly onto Highway 22. On his way back to the motel, he tossed Pierres fingertips out of the car one at a time, into the fields and ditches, with at least a mile between each one. Then he did the same with the teeth. He shoved the bloody bags and gloves into his fanny pack, cruised back to the motel in Bromley and took a shower.
2:23 AM
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