A SHARP ACHE SWEEPS UP HIS SIDE and he knows that his latest experiment in vigilantism has failed. he pants like a dog dying in the heat and he can’t move, tied to some cactus in the midsummer heat with the sun beating down on him like angry things beat down on kind ones. what did he expect, though? there’s always a chapter in the film, the low point yet the most courageous. the valiant anti-hero sits in the basement, poked and prodded and shot and punched and bleeding from a cut in his eye, but he does always find a way to ESCAPE. and that’s what he’ll do, despite his lack of gun and any other weapon. his mind is already racing as wild eyes glance the area for things to slither through. foxholes and coyotedens and the HOLE IN THE FENCE that the dog can dig under and shimmy through. he’s always thinking primal. no, he may’ve gotten a better idea of how to compose himself over the years, but at the end of the day he has not forgotten the valuables. for his line of work to be morally useful he must remember the AMORAL.
if only the narrative were so cut and clean; if only the things that people could shoot was the thing he knew so well how to use. but instead he blacks out again, dreams a quiet little dream of a pretty bluegreen motel room on a pretty island by the pretty sea, white moon above it. he awakes to the same. but it is GROTESQUE AND UNHOLY and the heartshaped face pierces him with those black eyes. jesse isn’t stupid and he knows this is a warning hiding in subconscious thought.
❛ a little overdramatic, ain’t ya? ❜ he bites his cheek, leaning his head away when he finally realises that the figure is REAL, not a hallucination or a second part of his dream. he’s SCARED. anyone with a finger over his wrist could tell that by his pulse, but you sure wouldn’t know it by the drawl of his voice. ❛ how are you s’pposed to move around in that?❜
‘ EASY. ‘ the poltergeist responds, voice as cold as ever. his body is, for a moment, nothing but a shadow, a wisp in the night. as he steps forward, towards the bloodied and half-broken form of something a previous version of himself used to love his form begins to solidify. first, a foot and the metallic boot surrounding it. he walks right over the revolve jesse loves so much, kicking it even farther away. whack ! disrespect for the weapon he had once admired so much.
his body withers, and fades once more, a mass of slithering smog and smoke, wound into a being lighter than air and yet heavier than a boulder. he snakes his way ( in the form of charcoal dust and bloodied, glowing eyes. ) over beside the self-proclaimed vigilante. crouching, like a big cat watching over his freshly-caught kill. though jesse was not dead yet, there was a nagging voice urging on a twitch in his index finger.
his voice crackles, a heartbeat stuttering in an attempt to take form: ‘ I’D CHOOSE YOUR WORDS CAREFULLY, COWBOY. YOU’RE NOT IN A POSITION TO POKE FUN AT ME OR AT TALON. ‘
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