Serial, part two

Gimletsville had been a one-horse town

until very recently, I saw

but it’s dusty corpse now rested in the middle of the street
it’s tether frayed and one ear missing.

My guide was a mustachioed man who expectorated on the horse’s corpse and exclaimed: “Damn shame!” I couldn’t say to what or who he referred, as his slitted eyes broiled on me as he spoke. Later I would realize that anger was more of a lifestyle than an emotion for him.

The bank was apparently abandoned except for a single teller. He slept soundly at the window. As he was not roused by my companion shouting “Damn Shame!” at the walls, I raised my hand to shake him by the shoulder to find it was covered in cob webs. Rigorous oscillation drew an irritated mumble from his depths, but his snoring remained. This was distressing to me, as I relied on my banknotes and carried very little cash (at the behest of many of my wisest friends).

Eventually, he roused enough to pocket the notes I handed him, but fell promptly asleep again after telling me there “weren’t no money.”

“Dem shaim;..” said my companion, chewing his cud.

I returned to the street to gaze at the dead horse and its floppy tongue, which a withered feline batted at with its paw. The heat was growing intense, and the noon star baked the thoughts right out of my head. “Well um i guess.” I lacked ideas on how to speak or live for the present.

“Yap,” said the mustache man. “Diiim shim.”

That night, I bunked under the stars with my loquacious companion, who set to his boiled horse with a will. My own appetite was lacking as I felt on the edge of being gobbled up by the desert.