Rocketship Nation

__________ The engine was idle, difficult to hear through the wind. He climbed out the Firebird, shirt off, jeans still wet from the flash downpour that had come and gone on Dixie Highway. The air smelled of coconut salt. He could hear the traffic. A1A and the surf beyond. He was shaking. Fueled by the Nighttrain. The gash in his forehead was long clean of blood and sand. It stung. Sweat. Itching. The pain in his back had grown weak from liquor. A sensation numb and sickly had covered his body, encapsulating him. He couldn't walk, only stumble across the pavement. The Colt .33 was caught in his jeans buckle. He fought around his waist, pulling the gun out, nearly dropping it in the puddles of dirty rain. It was glistening. Wet. Appearing like a toy in the light of the streetlamps. The store's neon sign spelled SAVE it ALL, glowing lime-green, looming over the lot. The Nova's engine was running. He could make the form out through the car's heavy tint. Hunched over. Staring down at the steering wheel. He was an apparition. Made real only by the tiny glow of the Nova's interior light. His head, hung low, gave the impression of a man asleep. He wanted him awake. To see the gun's barrel on the window. Hear the discharge as the bullet tore through glass and penetrated his face. The image energized him and he quickened his pace. Forms, vicious and quick, darted around inside the convenience store. He could hear swearing. Things breaking. He raised the gun. It was heavy to handle. Wind blew across the pavement, scattering trash across the Nova's grill. There was a moment when it appeared beautiful and perfect, like Autumn leaves in a backyard. It threw a chill over him so strong he felt as if he had been thrown into deep water. He put his finger to the gun's oily trigger. He thought about the crow. He raised the gun to the driver's window and fired two shots. __________