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Killing Time
By Wakefield Mahon

We were driving up Interstate 17 and I asked Joe where we were going.
“Killing time, man.”
I shook my head. Joe has this laidback way about him. I noticed the exit for Bloody Basin Road a mile up ahead. “Didn’t they make a movie about that road?”
“Yeah a bunch of yahoos desecrating the ancient burial ground.”
“Do they get what’s coming to them?”
“No clue. I never watch that horror movie crap.”
“So, do you think people ever get ideas from movies like that?”
Joe grimaced. “You’d think they’d be scared, but sometimes they just get drunk or high and have to show just how brave they are.”
“We’re talking in the hypothetical right?”
Joe drove turned off on the exit in chilling silence.
We pulled up on a group of rowdy young men, obviously drunk out of their minds. Joe jumped out of the truck with grandfather’s tomahawk in hand.
“Hey look here come the ghosts!”The loudest guy had just relieved himself on Gentle Bear’s grave.
She was my grandmother. I guess that makes this a family affair, a fight to the death if necessary. I think I understand what Joe was saying now. “It’s killing time.”




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