Part 1: Mother & the Memory
by Chris Roy
His grip relaxed then clamped, snatched, pushing with the other hand. A leg torqued from an uncooked chicken crackled an image in his mind, the woman's face replaced by hair in a blink.
Shoulders rolled up in soiled coveralls lingered a tense moment, heavy breathing mixed with a deep moan steaming to a sigh out of the corpse. His gloves moved, squeezed. The weight of the woman, alive, the change to a lifeless load - the speed of it - was a pleasantry internalized.
Lips drawn in, his thick tongue passed over them, nostrils puffing.
Mold permeated the concrete wall where it joined the pavement, service drive flooded with continuous drainage from the restaurant. The woman's body splashed onto the pavement. Butt, then hands. Legs splayed. Back to the wall. Hair where her face should be. The man watched the spot between her legs. The water darkened, spread toward his boots. His nose puffed faster.
Dishes rang from just inside the doorway. Loose rocks popped, boots coated in sludge rotated him, hard leather stretching. Solid-still as a wide cliff, bolder shifting atop, his large frame froze, head turned toward the restaurant’s kitchen. He watched the light on the floor.
More dishes, tap shutting off. His nostrils ceased puffing.
Scissors tall as the building shot into motion, arms and legs swinging inky shades on the building, black to gray. Heavy steel toes tread out of the dank alley, fists encased in an unknown animal hide pumped forward. Unchanging pace resounding the mass of the man that stopped in front of the truck, opened the door, stepped, swung into the driver's seat in one fluid move. Shut it.
Detonation shook the pavement, diesel engine knock-roaring to a steady thrum. The man's head appeared in the side mirror, block of pitch black with a slash of orange Illuminating his narrowed stare. The truck reversed, rumbled past the open kitchen exit, tires throwing water.
The concrete wall amplified a halting, sharp screech. The corpse at its base vanished beneath a cloud, pink exhaust thrusting through the red flash of brakes.
Setting the brake, he climbed out and grabbed the woman, strain absent from the lift. Trying not to focus on her cooling vitality, he held to the moment, the sudden charge of her life’s heat, death sensed… then snuffed. An exotic battery sucked dry in a wink of plasma.
Her pants waist stretched, ass soft on knuckles, uniform collar tearing, as he hefted, tossed her into the back. The refuse compressed, enveloping her with a welcome, soft hiss.
The big diesel revved. Clutch engaged. The truck freight trained back down the alley. Waste Management caught the lights towering in the plaza, the service truck accelerating into the turn. His nose puffed above the steering wheel. Gloves gripped wide. The engine cycled pings that deafened pedestrians, cab bumbling with a pulse unstoppable.
The grime on the windshield absorbed yellow-white glares cascading down at precise intervals, failed attempts to penetrate the interior. Slits of amber sitting high in the darkness inside studied the road. The direction of the next job was the man's only thought.
Chris Roy was raised in South Mississippi, in the midst of ugly Gulf Coast beaches and spectacular muddy bayous.
Chris lived comfortably with the criminal ventures of his youth until a fistfight in 1999 ended tragically. Since January, 2000, he's been serving a life sentence in the Mississippi Department of Corrections.
Nowadays he lives his life crime vicariously, through the edgy, fast-paced stories he pens, hoping to entertain readers. When he isn't writing, he's reading, drawing or looking for prospects to train in boxing.
Book I: Last Shine
Book 2: Resurrection
Sharp as a Razor
Book I: A Dying Wish
You can find Chris on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/OfficialChrisRoy/ and on Twitter @AuthorChrisRoy
Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/Chris-Roy/e/B00MF6LCHM
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