Ten Cent Comics, Issue No. 3
Issue No. 3 - "At The Crossroads"
April 19th, 2009. Utah Salt Flats.
Moonlight streams through the blinds as I gaze at the ceiling. The harsh winds of the barren flatlands sways my van. The sound of the wind is a permanent reminder of my own hubris. I struggle to clear my head. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Two Deep Breaths. Three Deep Breaths. When I open my eyes I see the warmth of the sun shining through my window. I strain as I sit up on my couch, my back cracking all the while. I glance out the window and look out over the barren wasteland I’ve found myself in.
After seven days of driving out from Dallas, not even stopping to sleep, I’ve found myself here. Like cheap booze and easy cash- the siren song of a journey through the desert while going on an eight day long substance induced binge, is impossible to ignore. Then again, I’ve never been one to make good decisions. Like taking out a loan or making dealings with the cartel. It’s just bad business, I learned that the hard way. I’m a week out from home, running from a Mexican drug cartel, and lost in the Utah wastelands, and all I want is a cold beer and a long night's rest.
The sun isn’t visible from the window. Must be pretty late in the morning, maybe noon at the latest. The mountains of the desert beyond are clearly visible on the horizon. I shift my legs off the backseat and onto the floor of my van. The floor is littered with tools; hex wrenches, screwdrivers, a crowbar, ball-peen hammer, and a drill with a diamond bit. My old work jumpsuit is laid out on the seat across from me. Hawkes’ Auto Repair and Body Shoppe, how quaint it all seems now. I can’t say for certain how badly I fucked up, but It goes a little something like this.
I’ll keep this short if I can. It all started two weeks ago. My boss tells me that we have a very special client that needs some work done. He waves in a fancy Mercedes, some S class or something-or-whatever. He tells me that it belongs to a very powerful man from Mexico, and he needs some special work done on his car.
“Now listen, alright. We don’t usually get gigs like this unless lady luck is really letting loose.” He leads me over to his desk, and grabs a folder, sliding a very lengthy list of instructions. “He says here he wants us to cut up this ‘ere fancy car and make it up with a buncha’ weird hidden trapdoors or something.” He shakes his head and lets out a frustrated sigh. “I know you’re good for it so I'm leaving this one to you. The pay looks phenomenal.” He hands me the folder and waves me out of his office. Our shop was no stranger to gang dealings. We’ve done custom work for many local criminals and drug runners. We have no worries about being caught. People would spread rumors, tell stories, nothing ever stuck. We were one of 25 different auto shops in the Dallas Metro Area, and we knew damn well we weren’t the only ones in the business. It helped to keep
people quiet.
But there I was, holding a coffee stained manilla folder with very careful instructions on how to prepare this trap car, apparently owned by some wealthy gangster. And I knew then and there that I was in for a bad run of things. Naturally I took the job in a heartbeat.
My mind refocuses on my immediate situation. I dress myself the best I can in my cramped van. Bootcut Levi's, a red and yellow aloha shirt, my work boots of dubious brand and quality. I finish lacing my boots and climb into the driver's seat. I land on something hard and metal. I sit up, only to find myself sitting on my gun. A .45 caliber handgun, my grandfather's brought back from Korea. I click open the glove compartment and slot the pistol inside. I sit in the driver’s seat, hands grasping the wheel. My eyes are drawn back to the white sands that seem to stretch out for miles. I’m seven days from home and I’m fearing for my life in the deserts of the Mormon homelands. Just as I’m beginning to zone out, the sound of tires on sand begins to ring in my ears. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Two Breaths. Three Breaths. And when I open my eyes I see three Cartel cruisers come on the horizon- riding in a formation like the ride of the Valkyries.
I stare blankly at them. And I wait patiently for fate to intervene at the crossroads.
END OF ISSUE NO. 3
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