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Departure

Bludgeon up a second of his somewhat pathetic life, to capture the memory that was eating all his obnoxious thoughts. To be what once was, was too far-gone in the moment, like a frozen snail, starting to crack, a fossil forgotten, to be with in, and without her.

"You look sleepy," A happy go lucky southern girl said, at the gas station, in-between the crossroads. "Maybe you should smile more often."

"I don't need a lecture, just do your job, and shut up, I smile when I feel like it," he muttered.

He sped down the gravel backroads, in his '67 souped up black Mustang, with her face flaunting through the self-murdering Voices. Playing Russian roulette with the final target, his heart. A Joker's card lay next to him, in the passenger seat, in-between his legs was a bottle of the finest whiskey money can buy, and a letter in his pocket, he had written two years before the incident. The radio speakers pumped out another world of twanging banjos, as his foot stepped harder on the pedal, thinking of her last words.

The cornfields zipped by him, as a deer ran out in front of the speeding anger, splat, it flew in the air, tumbling behind his vehicle, broken legs mangled, as her young fawn peered through the trees, wondering what had just happened. He didn't even flinch; it could have been a person for all he cared. The mission had to be completed.

"Dam bitch, who the fuck does she think she is, telling me I cant see my own kids," punches in the air, steam shooting from his ears, blood dripping from his front bumper. A maniacal defunct mad-man look pasted onto his "just lost my job" face. He slugged down the poison, to rationalize what he had planned for his ex-wife.

He sped into the farm house driveway he once owned, slamming on the brakes, with dust filling the air, tractor sounds, too many noises, too much he had taken. He felt like a real old time outlaw cowboy, and it was time for a show down with the bitch.

His boy, now twelve, came running out of the barnyard, "Daddy! Daddy!" he yelled with glee. He picked his son up, and hugged him. His 14-year-old daughter's eyes, staring through an upstairs window, with a sense of fear in them.

Melanie came running out of the barn yard like house, "You can't be here, you bastard! I have a restraining order! Are you crazy!"

"I just want to see my kids for one day, please Melanie, you owe this to me," setting his son down on the ground.

"I don't owe you shit, you're a worthless two timing drunk!"

Melanie's new man, out in the cornfields, farming, stepped down off the tractor, and came running, full armor shield on.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he questioned.

"I'm here to see my kids Superman. Don't try and stop me, you know I used to own that tractor you're plowing on."

"Get off the property right now, or I'll kick your ass!"

"I wouldn't suggest trying that, you'll be sorrier then that bitch you're dating."

Melanie ran inside to call the cops, as her daughter came out to try and calm the situation down.

"Please Daddy, we don't want any trouble."

"'Either do I honey, I'm here to take you and your brother to the zoo for the day, and no one is going to stop me."

"I am," the new man said, coming at the father.

The father slung his leg in the air like a Bruce Lee in fast forward, connecting hard with the new man's face, sending him to the dirt for a nice sleep.

"Get in the car, both of you," he yelled to his kids. "I'm taking you to the zoo for the day, and were gonna have a blast!"

His daughter, with a nervous intrigued smile, noticed the deer blood on the front bumper, grabbing her little brothers arm; they loaded into the Mustang.

Melanie came running out of the house with a shotgun.

"Where the hell do you think you're going with my kids!" she yelled pointing the gun at him.

"Your not going to shoot me Melanie, these kids are ours, we had a bond, despite all the past, and you can never kill that bond," he said, pulling the 2 year old letter from his back pocket, and throwing it towards her teary eyes.

She fell to the ground, clutching the letter.

"I'll always love you Melanie."

"Oh God, please bring my kids back," she sobbed, reaching a hand over to rub her sleeping man's hurt head. The Mustang sped off.

The father reassured his kids it was all right, as he nipped his fine whiskey.

Feeling like the monkey on his back had just been pulled off, and thrown into a meat grinder.

He opened his glove box, foot on the gas, full speed, pulling out three Northwest airline tickets, handing them to his son.

"Ever heard of Mexico kids?" he said, laughing. Speedometer read 130 miles per hour, while his climax worked into the episode of his lone torture.

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