A new year had come and Spring was beginning to show, melting winter away one warm digit after another. By this time, while George’s murder was not forgotten, Hutch’s life continued on and he felt the need to stretch his legs.

Still chilly, he pulled his long coat on, covering the pistol he had holstered to his hip and tied to his thigh. Behind that, he carried his favorite long knife.

“Better prepared, than not,” he told himself as he slipped a knit stocking on his head and with Lulu Belle standing next to him, locked his front door.

They took their time — or rather Lulu Belle took her time — smelling anything and peeing on everything. What might have been worth five minutes on any other day, became more than a quarter hour of stop and start.

Finally, they stepped off the asphalt and beyond the cement barrier that had the words, “No Trespassing,” stenciled across its front. The K-wall had been there for more than twenty-years and no one on foot, bicycle or dirt bike paid the warning any mind.

Lulu Belle ran ahead. She’d dislodged a large jack rabbit and gave it a wild chase.

Unable to catch it, she trotted back to Hutch, who decided to take the trail, which splintered in two directions, to the right. He reached down and patted the large dog on the head, who in turn gripped his hand gently in her mouth, an act she’d began and continued since her puppy hood.

Letting go of Hutch, she ran up and onto a berm of freshly dug dirt recently moved for an upcoming housing development. Lulu Belle bounced between the multiple piles as Hutch laughed and continued along the trail.

The cold of the morning air was suddenly split at the thunderous sound of a rifle shot. Lulu Belle howled in pain and tumbled wildly through the air, landing near where Hutch had been standing.

As for Hutch, he felt a burning sting slice through his left side between his hip and rib cage. The sharp blow sent him sprawling and tumbling to the ground a few feet from Lulu Belle.

Quickly, he crawled over to the dog. instantly concluded that she was gone. He placed his forehead to the side of hers and whispered, “I’m so sorry, girl. I’ll be back.”

“It’s a damn good thing you had your dog with you,” commented the Deputy Dan Melton

“I suppose so – and what a time to go wandering around the desert without a gun,” Hutch replied.

“Kind of glad you didn’t have one,” stated Melton.

“Yeah, why’s that?” Hutch asked.

“She had kittens and we would’ve never found them had you killed her,” the deputy answered. Then he offered, “Too bad she was put down before we learned she didn’t killed Mr. Whitehouse, but was only claiming him as her kill.”

“It is a shame – but then she already had the taste for man, so that made her a real danger to the community — especially since we have so many kids and elderly living around here,” Hutch returned.

There was a pause, then Hutch asked, “So, if the wild cat didn’t kill George, what did? Natural causes?”

“No,” answered Melton, “He was shot in the head at some distance. Detective’s believe it was done sniper-style.”

“Holy shit,” Hutch shuttered, “And we walked right into it.”

It was Lulu Belle that caught scent of the odor first. The bull mastiff paused and sniffed the air with vigorous huffs of breath, before turning around to look at Hutch.

At first the big dog didn’t want to continue, but Hutch, absentmindedly unable to recognize the dogs body language, urged Lulu Belle to move forward. Instead of pressing down the path, sniffing the ground and the surrounding brush, the dog had her head lifted high in the air and her usually wagging tail tucked between her hind legs.

“There it is,” Hutch smiled.

Lulu Belle whined softly as the continued to approach the site.

“Hallo the camp,” Hutch called out.

No answer. No movement.

“Hallo the camp,” he hollered again.

Continuing towards the spot where he could see the tent covered with a brown plastic tarp, Hutch caught the smell Lulu Belle had first noted back on the trail. He knew that odor, the odor of death.

Hutch cautiously approached the tent. From near it, he could see the legs of a person, face down on the ground.

As he stepped towards what he knew to be the body of George, Lulu Belle sprang in front of him, hackles up from the nape of her neck to the base of her tail. The big dog refused to allow Hutch by.

“What’s wrong with you?” he chided the dog.

As if to answer, a mountain lion screamed, causing Hutch to freeze. Meanwhile Lulu Belle remained planted between Hutch and the still hidden cat.

At first Hutch couldn’t see the cat crouched amid the sage. It was only when George’s lifeless remains shifted, that the cats play of concealment became obvious.

Hutch stepped forward and grabbed Lulu Belle by her collar, forcing her back. At first she did not want to go, but finally after a sharp whimper she followed Hutch’s command.

The pair quickly retreated to the paved roadway of their neighborhood and to home. It was there that Hutch called the sheriff’s office to report what he’d found.

The old man walked up and down the street a couple of times each day. And each day he looked more and more haggard and ragged.

It was obvious to Hutch that he was homeless and probably living out among the sage brush with the jack rabbits and coyotes. On what he figured to be the tenth day, Hutch took a cartoon of eggs, a short slab of bacon and the fixing to make biscuits out to the old man as he walked by.

“George Whitehouse,’ the old man called himself.

“Hutch Fitzgerald.”

“Thank you, Hutch,” the old man said as he headed back from wherever he’s come from.

Three days later, Hutch, enjoying a cup of coffee, saw him coming from up the street and quickly went inside his home and grabbed the small bag of groceries and some hand-me-down clothes he’d set aside for George. Again, the old man appeared thankful and for the next three summer months, Hutch continued to supply George with a few necessities.

It was late September when George failed to appear. At first, Hutch wasn’t concerned, thinking that perhaps the old man had returned to town, where the living might be easier as the coming cold months had begun to set in.

On the twelfth day of no George, curious to see where the old man had established his camp and thinking that maybe a little clean up might be in order, Hutch wandered out into the desert, a wide space on the map,  that separated two large area neighborhoods. It didn’t take him very long to find the well-tracked path leading to the homeless man’s secreted encampment.

The young man was lead to a small cell with a door marked “pull” in red lettering on its interior. He stood in the middle of the room, listening to the jangling of the keys as the attendant locked the heavy metal door.

Above the door frame, in a simple cursive font: “A man will be imprisoned in a room with a door that’s unlocked and opens inwards; as long as it does not occur to him to pull rather than push.” – Ludwig Wittgenstein, Culture and Value, 1977

Within minutes the bored young man had seated himself against the far wall and watched the gray door expectantly with its bright lettering and the quote above it. After an hour, a calm female voice spoke through the small speaker in the CCTV camera in the corner of the room, “Thank you for your assistance in this experiment. You can leave the room at anytime.”

Convinced the experiment was fixed, because try as he might, the door would not swing open. Frustrated, the young man grew angry, finally demanding to be released.

Soon an older man, in a knee-length white medical coat entered his cell, saying, “You’ve been able to leave this room anytime you wanted.”

“No I couldn’t,” the young man argued. “The door’s been locked.”

“No — it’s never been locked,” the examiner stated, stepping to the door and pushing it open.

Staring at the starry sky
It occurs to me that I am
Looking at a box lid with
Holes punch through it so
We can continue to breath.

Invent yourself
Then reinvent yourself
Work hard — play harder
Dirty hands and filthy sweat
Filthy mind and dirty laughter
Frequent the neighborhood watering hole
The local dive
Drink cheap whiskey
Drink expensive beer
Stay away from mini-umbrellas
And learn to ride a horse
Rope a cow
Ride a bull — bareback — and
Drive a stick-shift
Own a crappy truck
Walk
Keep a nice home
Mow your own lawn
Mow the neighbors lawn
No grass — get some
Shower daily or
Take a bath
Preferably with a Redhead
No Redhead —
A Blond
A Brunette
Preferably all at the same time
Only once
Keep the Brunette
And get a dog

He awoke alone in his very familiar room, yet there was a subtle difference, which he picked up on immediately. It was a minor stab of guilt from the night before, after having done something he had never dreamed of normally doing.

Attempting to put the memory aside, he tried desperately to return to sleep. When that didn’t work, he buried his head in his pillow, but to no avail.

That guilt eventually turned to paranoia as he stared at the double set of eyeballs that return his stare from over his bathroom sink. He blinked first, and knew at that moment that if he didn’t turn himself in to the cops, those same unblinking, unapologetic eyes that stared at him would never let him rest.

They bore into him, creating a certain kind of madness. He needed to take action and quickly, before insanity became his norm.

The opening sentence to his statement, his written confession, began: “Because the bulbs in the vanity above my bathroom sink refuse to blink, and because they are all knowing of my guilt, I am giving this freely and without coercion…”

How the practical joke had taken a turn for the worst for him. He was now locked in the refrigeration unit with a dozen dead bodies and no one knew it, save for himself and the man he’d scared half-to-death.

“I never thought he’d run like that and lock me in here,” the would-be-prankster said as he groped for the heavy parka left on a nail behind the door for such an unfortunate event.

Slumping to the floor, he listened to the gentle hum of the power-plant as it fed chilled air into the dark chamber. He never realized, until now, how absolutely pitch-black the make-shift morgue was with the lights turned off outside and the door latched closed.

“What was that?” he said as he held his breath to listen, “Nothing…jus’ my mind playing tricks on me.”

A couple of minutes later, he heard that same odd sound. This time though, it seemed to be closer and he felt the small hairs on his neck and arms begin to stand on end.

“Hello?” he asked, trying to sound calm. Again, nothing and as expected, no answer.

For a few minutes all was quiet, even the hum of the refrigeration unit had ceased. He listened for any sound coming from outside and the possibility rescue.

He physically jumped at the sudden and unexpected restarting of the refrigeration unit as it kicked on, beginning another cooling cycle. His reaction caused as few seconds of nervous laughter as he realized the stupidity of his predicament.

But then, there was that noise again, as if something were inside the unit, moving. In his mind, he knew that nothing, save for himself, was alive in the former shipping container – but still he couldn’t help clinging to what he believed were ‘silly human notions’ and further, he couldn’t help letting them slip into and out of his mind.

Again, that sound came – and this time he was certain it was closer and more over, he felt whatever movement made through a vibration in the metallic flooring. He stood up, back pressed against the wall.

“Who the hell’s there?” he demanded.

Refusing to be played for a fool, he slid into the nearby corner to his left and stepped forward, certain that the pathway across the narrow room was clear. However he found it wasn’t as he bumped into a gurney holding a bagged and stiffened corpse.

Putting his hands out in surprise, the fingers of his right hand brushed against something slick, clammy and repulsive, like loose skin. He shrieked in uncontrolled terror and fell back, striking his head violently on the floor as he dropped from fright.

When next the temporary morgue was again opened, the would-be prankster was found dead where he’d fallen. In his hand was a single latex glove, slick and clammy to the touch of one groping in the dark, and loathsome like the touch of loose skin – and death.

no money, no faith
begging for work is a skill
tears are like daily bread