Punctured

part viii:
.
Media . . . how the fuck was I supposed to get out of that one? Matthew Onger slammed his fist on the steering wheel, letting loose some of the desert sand and a grunt from deep within him. He kept the van within speed limit and continued driving west on the 212.

He had to get to Ronan to do some house-keeping as soon as possible. Who knew when the cops might poke their unwelcome noses in now? What the hell was Ricky doing in Montana, anyways? And did he have to come get himself killed here, in my back yard? This is just too. . . ah, Ricky. . . you always did have lousy timing, didn’t you? Ricky, Ricky, Ricky. . .

It hadn’t taken long for Matthew to realize that those shots were meant for him, that his little brother had died for his sins. If it hadn’t been for the missing genitals, well, it might have been anyone’s guess. But that fact changed everything. And as he continued driving eastward, Matthew was remembering the one that got away. . .
.