The sun slipped behind the horizon like a lost hope.
Vic turned, wiped the blood of his shoes, and began to forget.
. . .
Unfortunately, one of the things he forgot was the bloody hand, tying his shoelaces together.
Vic slipped down the slippery slope, losing his footing along with his hope, into . . .
a threshing machine.
Luckily, the machine was not turned on. Summoning his remaining dignity, he began to walk back into town.
The dim of headlights approached as he lit his last Winston. Looking back he did’nt know if he had the energy to return to society. Then beams became brighter and as the bus rolled to a stop. A tattered banner hung from its side and he made out the words “Albuquerque Nymphomanics and Strippers Convention”. The cigarette butt bounced off the cold desert floor as he stepped on to the platform but he falied to notice the bloody stump that had just latched onto the bumper…