Elt tripped over his thoughts stepping into the light, swinging against the weight of his gun. The matte black Impala soaked in afternoon sun while waiting for backwoods dust to settle. The thick pine wood isolated the road in a semi-circle around them. Elt didn’t think he needed the piece, but it made him feel good – powerful.
“Even when we go to the fucking McDonald’s, he’s ordering oatmeal.” Mosely didn’t retort, just grunted back at Elt’s whining. Elt always did the talking. Mosely knew these jobs made Elt nervous. Mosely liked his job. He pretended Elt’s monologues beset him, but despite the squealing pitch, Elt could find humor in the long pauses of their job that gave Elt the creeps. Elt figured it didn’t bother him, but never tempted fate over the line.
“I mean who does that? Pretentious prick.”
Elt eyed the meadow between the trees and the woods suspiciously. He flicked the safety of his piece on and off, then stopped when he got nervous that he’d lost track of where he left off.
“Alright, flip for it?” Elt tried not to sound too casual. Mosely took the bait. He left his wide frame straight on as he turned to side eye Elt. Heat from the Impala filled the space between them. That’s the closest Elt got to confirmation. He called “tails” on the quarter pinging through the air.
He smacked the quarter over and allowed himself a slanted smile, “I win.” Again, he timbered his voice to stay even. If he knew one thing from jail that stayed true no matter what, don’t piss off the big guy. Especially when you only made it up to 180 pounds soaking wet. Mostly grease.
Mosely grunted and uncocked the gun he had resting at his hip. If it wasn’t the cops, it was the farmers. If it wasn’t the farmers, it was Elt’s pale, pretty face and screeching to ruin a good job. Not sadness, but something relative to Mosely, pagned a bit at the thought of the loss.