Thank God that buzzard started pecking at my blistered skin when he did. If he hadn’t, I might not have ever woken up. The heat was excruciating, and my mouth felt swollen and desperate for anything that might resemble water. I wonder if buzzard blood tastes as bad as it sounds. It’s a moot point anyway, since my strained, weak, get-the-fuck-out-of-here swats were enough to let him know I wasn’t dinner yet.

I’ve got to find shade, and I’ve got to find water – fast. Sun block would be nice too, but something tells me there isn’t a Walgreens anywhere near here. The grains of sand ripped at the bottoms of my feet, already baked from the desert sun. But if I didn’t use my last bit of energy now, I knew they’d win, whoever they may be.

This wasn’t like Tony. He and I weren’t exactly friends, but he was a clean killer. If he didn’t like you, he took you out point blank, and maybe a friend or family member or two. None of this twisted sadistic Hollywood shit. And Frank? Frank was small time. He’s too busy running his two-bit bookie operation to be able to execute something like this, not to mention too stupid. I don’t know who I pissed off, but I’m not sure they’ve realized who they pissed off.

There’s a reason they call me 9 Lives. I think I’m up to seven now, but the way I see it, that still leaves a comfortable buffer. Fact is you can call me whatever name you want. I don’t have anything on me except my ratty sun-tattered clothes – no ID, no money, nothing. Not that my IDs gave you much real information anyway. I like to live on the outside, but I guess this is part of the price you pay for such a lifestyle. The sun is finally starting to settle down for the night, but I’m just getting started.

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