For the last fifteen or so years I've been living with a bunch of dead guys at a motel in West Texas. Like the characters in my stories, I'd really like to move on, see the world, go places. But I'm just like them. Anchored by love, worn down by circumstances and fascinated by how much there really is underneath it all. So I keep writing their stories and tell myself that someday, when I've got this all out of my system, I'll write deep, meaningful literature about... something else. In the meantime, this is a place for the short attention spanned. I'm making a commitment to keep it small here. Flash fiction and scenes from the life inspired by, The Bella Vista Motel.
Romeo had to make an effort to keep a friendly look on his face as he made a fresh pot of coffee and got busy with eggs and bacon for Clark, because every word out of the guy's big mouth – though he seemed oblivious to his effect – grated and annoyed. "I can't believe you been gone from the city so long, I don't know how you keep from going nuts after being such a big shot and all, and then," he punctuated the observation with his weird, high pitched giggle, "to end up out here making beds in some fleabag motel." Trusting in the intoxicating effect of frying bacon to keep Clark salivating in the kitchen and off guard, Romeo ticked off options in his head; shoot the guy...no, too much noise would wake Madge, stab the guy...no, the kitchen, while easy to clean was still not a place he wanted blood all over, bludgeon the guy...no, that was one thick skull, poison the guy...hmm, maybe... Romeo turned around to consider what and how much he would need to use and was startled to see that Clark was staring at him, his eyes moistening with despair as he said, "Maybe you're the lucky one, getting out of town when you did, Mr. G ain't right on top of you out here, not like how it is back there now, the pressure..." he paused heavily, "a guy can't get a break." Romeo leaned on the counter and watched the expression in Clark's eyes shift from mushy self-pity to angry resentment, to cold calculation as the bacon sizzled, the fried eggs popped and the coffee perked. The big man sat forward on his chair and considered Romeo a long time before he said quietly, "Is it true what they say about this place, what they say about you," he pointed a sausage sized finger at Romeo, "is it true you're Mr. G's gun?"