The Master's Plan
White Plains, New Mexico, 1973
Wink sits completely motionless for the sixth day in a row. Only a slightly involuntary flutter of his heartbeat betrays that he is even a living being at all. He stares into the distance and ponders this, the most critical phase of his master plan. A bead of perspiration emerges in a furrow on his brow. He reflects on his desolate surroundings and deems them good. He can remember last week with the detachment of a historical record.
*****
"See, Arthur, it DOES taste vaguely like ice cream doesn't it?" said Wink to the dying man at his feet. He was in Tempe, Arizona on the business of settling a bar bet. After the desert serpent's venom had begun to take its course through the system of the unfortunate loser of the bet, Wink turned his attention to searching for his next diversion.
"Somebody pick that up!" said Martindale to no one in particular.
He strode through the dust swept tavern with the confidence that only an immortal can exude. But there was a loudmouthed taker at the far end of the bar. There always was. And he raised his face and spoke, "You're the one they talk about, aren't you? I heard a' you back in Needles. It true you can tell how long anyone's gonna live?"
Wink light a havana and inhaled deeply, losing himself in the swirl of the ether for a time.
"So g'wan! Tell me how long I'm gonna live," badgered the doomed man.
"Seven days, Mister Cooper," Martindale hissed.
*****
Wink Martindale is jarred awake by the howl of a coyote in the distance. Sunset has burnt the sky a pleasant shade of orange. He stands erect and ambles over to the stolen convertable to his left.
"That'll teach you to get uppity, Cooper," says Wink flippantly as he looks down at the lifeless man buried up to his neck in the hard pan desert sand.
As Wink begins to relieve his bladder, he looks to the horizon and knows his destiny. Two glyph-like phrases seem to float before him in space.
One is "Reno".
The other is "27 Black".
Wink sits completely motionless for the sixth day in a row. Only a slightly involuntary flutter of his heartbeat betrays that he is even a living being at all. He stares into the distance and ponders this, the most critical phase of his master plan. A bead of perspiration emerges in a furrow on his brow. He reflects on his desolate surroundings and deems them good. He can remember last week with the detachment of a historical record.
*****
"See, Arthur, it DOES taste vaguely like ice cream doesn't it?" said Wink to the dying man at his feet. He was in Tempe, Arizona on the business of settling a bar bet. After the desert serpent's venom had begun to take its course through the system of the unfortunate loser of the bet, Wink turned his attention to searching for his next diversion.
"Somebody pick that up!" said Martindale to no one in particular.
He strode through the dust swept tavern with the confidence that only an immortal can exude. But there was a loudmouthed taker at the far end of the bar. There always was. And he raised his face and spoke, "You're the one they talk about, aren't you? I heard a' you back in Needles. It true you can tell how long anyone's gonna live?"
Wink light a havana and inhaled deeply, losing himself in the swirl of the ether for a time.
"So g'wan! Tell me how long I'm gonna live," badgered the doomed man.
"Seven days, Mister Cooper," Martindale hissed.
*****
Wink Martindale is jarred awake by the howl of a coyote in the distance. Sunset has burnt the sky a pleasant shade of orange. He stands erect and ambles over to the stolen convertable to his left.
"That'll teach you to get uppity, Cooper," says Wink flippantly as he looks down at the lifeless man buried up to his neck in the hard pan desert sand.
As Wink begins to relieve his bladder, he looks to the horizon and knows his destiny. Two glyph-like phrases seem to float before him in space.
One is "Reno".
The other is "27 Black".