The Man from Out of Town

Jacky was lifting a crate of mostly hay onto his pickup truck when he saw the man in a brown leather jacket. And Jacky knew at that moment that the man had came from somewhere else but the town. He didn't have to make sure by checking up close, he was sure. After closing up the back panel, Jacky stood leaning against the side of the truck, with arms on the railing, eyes on the stranger.

The man quietly approached Jacky, and the man was not wearing shoes and had a straw in his mouth. Apparently he was chewing it too, because his mouth was wriggling up to the moment the straw disappeared.

"That's close enough," Jacky said, raising his hand, showing his rough, white-washed palm at the man, "can I help you with anything, mister? You don't seem like you came from nearby."

The man casted his sight on the yellow sand, his lips dry and ragged. "May I have some water?" the voice was hoarse, hollow, with a hound-like groan at the end. The man looked up.

Jacky saw the scars on his face, along with the wounds that looked barely a few days old, some were new and hadn't yet to stop dripping red. "Sure," Jacky said, and went to the front wheel where he had a few bottles of water. He probed through the car window and grabbed a bottle of mountain water he had gathered just that morning. People said drinking mountain water could make him last longer in bed, but he doubted it to the pelvis.

When Jacky had the bottle in his hand, and was about to retreat from the window, he felt something stuck to his side, pressing hard onto his ribs. He cried.

A shot.

For a second there, Jacky thought he was dead. His ears was ringing, and his nose had caught the burning smell of gunpowder.