A screech from the tires scraping the pavement's soul in the middle of nowhere. The desert. Hot for lust, but devious to those who thirst for it. The night is not any friendly. The car - a bloody red Dodge Viper of all cars - roars through the thick fog in the peak of the night. The middle of nowhere; the devil's hell. The back seat is vacant, but the passengers seat is where the money lies. A man - could not be older that thirty - stood there motionless. His blonde hair was short; he wore a tuxedo, but seemed to be short on cash for a nice pair of pants. Fucking boxers. His jaw wide open as if to scream. His left eye covered with a pirate's patch and his right eye slightly opened. There was dark dry blood slapped on his neck. The man's neck was severed; just below his jaw. The slice wide enough to welcome his tongue, which stuck out like a soar thumb. A Cuban necktie was what they called it. A Cuban necktie of all things.
The other man - him, too, could not have been more than thirty - was driving the old bazooka. That old piece of shit. He lit a cigar with the good hand - the other was missing three fingers. ACDC's T.N.T blasted through the speaker phones while the driver gazed in the mirror to look at his face. He admired it as he stroked his beard, which was similar to that of Fidel Castro. The driver smiled and laughed sinisterly. A hell of a night, a hell of a country - wherever he was - and a hell of a way to die.
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