It Always Rains On The Unloved

Drip, drip drip. Soft water falls onto the wooden floor and flows to a sleek, black Stetson lying by the bed. It is on this bed that a man lies; staring at the ceiling with his hand across his chest like a medieval knight. However, he is no knight; his name is Parker, the Modern Cowboy.

Parker dreams of a river, her march slow and regal, he dreams of the start of a different life; a life that began as this story has, with the fall of soft water?

Condensation from the pipes fell onto the roof of his cardboard box and warm, shunted air flowed into the secluded alley that Parker, for now, called home. But this was not home; Parker was waiting, waiting with the Stetson over his eyes, chrome pistol in his hand and the song "Horse with no name" in his mind. You may ask whom he was waiting for. Well, he was waiting for a man and his whore; he didn't care who this man was or whether the whore was actually a whore, it was just a fact of life that they must die. Besides, a tidy sum came at the cost of two lives and, more importantly, two bullets.

Another hour passed, but Parker didn't get frustrated, Parker was like a spider, a Zen spider, willing to wait a thousand years if it meant getting the job done and getting paid. Suddenly, two voices, one a tenor and the other a woman's, trained to evoke the correct response from a paying customer.

"Why do you have to be so mysterious?" the woman whined. Damn, thought Parker, I'm getting a hard-on just listening to this bitch. She must be expensive.

"It's part of my mystique," the tenor retorted. That was Parker's cue.

He rolled out of the cardboard box and raised the chrome pistol, barely noticeable against the alley walls. His trained eyes quickly regarded the scene; the man was nothing, but the woman, the woman! She was European, probably French, but had so much makeup on that she looked like a cheap Asian whore, about a subtle as a Las Vegas billboard. But her eyes drew Parker, blue-grey eyes that danced with a quick intelligence and spoke to him, saying I got your number, cowboy.

It was at this point that Parker did the most unprofessional thing he ever had, or ever would, do. Parker adjusted the chrome pistol, shot the man in the shoulder, swung the whore across his shoulders and ran out of the alley to be lost in the mass organism of the crowd.

It is wise to note at this point that Parker found the whore very physically attractive. Even with the overuse of makeup she drew Parker and made his heart ache. It must be the eyes, Parker later reflected, those blue-grey orbs hold something for me. However, at the time Parker felt lucky she didn't hurt him with her flailing limbs.

It was a few hours later that Parker, whore still swung across his shoulders, came to a stop at a gaudy, pink-coloured motel that was definitely on the wrong side of town. The receptionist, who had seem plenty in her time, raised one eyebrow and gave Parker a look that said you have fun mister, but if you get in trouble it's not my problem. Parker didn't even bother to reply to the unspoken insult and stalked off in the direction of his room, shore still swung across his shoulders.

The motel room wasn't much, with only austere furnishings and a small bathroom on the side. It also smelt of sweat and cheap champagne, but this didn't really matter; it wasn't like Parker was going to live there or anything.

He set, well, he actually flung, the whore onto the bed and its well-worn springs creaked in anticipation.