now where will you stay, all pale and all alone,
after the way you used to make fun of things."
- Hadrian (76-138 AD)
As he lifted the butt of the hand-rolled cigarette up to his lips for one last desperate drag, the cherry of the grit bit his fingertips.
"Ah, shit," Hank said as he flicked the butt to the steel floor of the boxcar.
As the pain in his fingertips subsided, a new pain emerged in his stomach. There was no more to deny- he couldn't suppress the rumble of his stomach any longer. And that last bruised apple in his pack just wouldn't suffice.
He hoisted himself off of the cold metal floors, walked to the mouth of the boxcar and peered out.
"Attica," he said to himself.
Yes, the train would be pulling into a station shortly. Long gone were the days when Hank would duck and roll out of a train running at full speed. Twice-broken feet were all it took to convince him that patience wasn't such a bad quality when it came to exiting a freight.
Hank used the few spare minutes until the freight slowed to finish off the flask of whiskey he had lifted from that diaphanous, drunk woman from two nights back.
When the outside wind turned from a howl to a whisper, Hank pounced out of the mouth of the boxcar, ensuring he landed on his heels. He brought his hand up to his brow to shade his eyes and surveyed the landscape. There was the fringes of a town to the north west. He trudged up a vivid green green hill, eventually arriving at a ranch.
There was a brown steed grazing at the wooden fence right near Hank. He bit his lower lip and grinned. He scanned the ranch, looking for a ranch hand. Quickly, he hopped over the fence and grabbed the apple from his pack and offered it to the horse. As the horse went for the fruit, Hank withdrew his hand and put the apple back in his pack. He wasn't about to give his last piece of food to a damned animal.
He hopped on horseback. The steed neighed. As Hank was about to ride off, a young man ran out the front door of the ranch house brandishing a baseball bat.
"Bullshit," Hank said and jumped the horse clean over the fence.
The bat boy jumped on the nearest horse and took chase after Hank.
"Hey! Get back here!" the boy yelled.
Yeah, I'll get right on that, Hank thought. He slapped the horse on the rear. He led the boy through a range of twists and turns, moving from graveled road to light forestry, in an attempt to lose him. Nevertheless, the rancher boy was able to keep up with Hank, all the while hollering insults and threats of injury. Hank's efforts to escape led the pair to the heart of a small town with just one main road and now-sparse homes scattered about the settlement. Hank ran the horse down the only formally paved road in the town and looked over his shoulder. He saw the boy steer his horse to a building and hop off.
A puzzled look arose on Hank's face until he saw where exactly the boy was going. The law.
As the horse whizzed down main street, Hank whipped his head from side to side desperatley looking for a place of salvation.
Ah hah. Hank stopped the horse.
He hopped off horseback, slapped the horse's ass to send him running and walked toward the only sanctuary that had ever given his heart salvation: the local tavern.
Hank rode for a while more until he reached the spot where the earth began to reclaim the road.
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