Gasoline fumes singe his nose,
the traffic sounds all around,
and the soft snick, snick, snicker
of the pump,
as it fills his tank,
and drains his wallet.
He smooths his hand over the sleek flank of his Charger;
the finest destrier Dodge ever made.
He sees her across the tarmac,
sizing him up, planning her approach.
One glance at her face confirms it;
sucked in cheeks, toothless jaw,
eyes, gaslight blue with intent.
A methological creature,
in these days of whine and poses,
her kind roam the parking lots,
often in pairs.
He prepares to do battle.
A flick of wrist lowers
the Ray-Ban visor of his helm.
He shifts his Holy Lance
to the corner of his mouth
and lifts his invisible shield,
emblazoned with a bright red stop sign,
and the words: Here be dragons.
Her step falters, her eyes dim,
she acknowledges his victory.
“I wasn’t going to ask for money,
I only wanted to know the time.”
They both know it’s a lie.
She turns to leave, seek new prey,
he hears; “We’re all just people,
we’re all the same…”
And for a moment, watching her go,
he could swear he caught the acrid scent
of fire
and brimstone.



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