Sweat cascaded off Gordo’s uneven head. His heart pounded inside his chest, and the humid night air pounded back from the outside. Memory came like flotsam along the languid river, from that fateful day.

“You, my dear sir,” the elegant voice had lazily intoned, “seem like someone who appreciates…pretty things.“

There would be no more pretty things. There would be no more peace. There would be no more dark solitude, only the harsh, incriminating light of investigation and trial.

The agent’s gun did not waver but stared him down through the soupy darkness. But the agent’s eyes had to dart back and forth. The river lapped. The john boat beckoned. The bullfrogs croaked about freedom and escape.

With a lop-sided lurch Gordo spun towards the boat, his bad leg scraping along the rough wood of the dock. He smiled his twisted smile and for a brief instant felt hope, saw salvation in watery shadows.

His ears announced the doom his back would soon confirm.

Pop! Pop!

BOOM !