“Step off m'land, ya sorry sack o' rusty shit, or feel the burn o' my piece.”
They were the first words he'd heard from another mouth in nearly a decade, bubbling like vomit from between the teeth of an old straw hat and denim. He stumbled back a bit at the sound and took it in like cool water rushing over his body. The raggedy man in front of him, crouching with shotgun ready, looked confused for a moment but then straightened again. There was tension here, with pride nearby. But the land was dry and dusty, with dead trees to match the rest of the world. Nothing worth a threat or a drop of blood. He gazed dumbfounded at the raggedy man in silence, unable to respond himself but hoping for more words to come. Never mind that they were wretched curses. They were words, and they were beautiful. Like a symphony from a phonograph. Better. In person. He stood hunched and dazed, savoring the fresh memory in his cracked and lonely ears. The words, coughed and scratchy, echoed behind his eyes and he closed them to get closer to the quickly aging sound. He found himself inside a chamber of darkness, replaying the words over and over and over and... they fell apart a little with each echo so that eventually all he heard was sound, words inarticulate. But indulged still he did, and would have forever, until he was brought back by a heavy click. Then an all-too-familiar sound, like thunder crashing, and all fell silent within himself and without.
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