Pancho and Lefty, Eternally is Here!

This is it. The sweat’s lashin’ off your arse, slippin’ between the crack, and all you can hear is the Gun Club’s “Eternally is Here” poundin’ through your head. The .44 Magnum in your stubby little grip is, despite what the gun-slinging copper on TV said, not the world’s most powerful hand-cannon. You slide the duffel to Walden. He pilfers it for dye packs. You stare out the floor-to-ceiling windows. Hell or High Water country. Wide fuckin’ open.

Seconds.

Breath.

Breathe.

Back to seconds.

No, scratch that. We have time.

The long arm of the law only has a protruding stub out here in the form of their very own sun-baked Buford T. Justice. 

“Kamikaze til you get there, babe.”

“Don’t Jap yourself just yet.”

Dust-caked Hyundai.

The blacktop passes underneath.

“So do we get stupid with it or give it to the poor?”

“Well if the Sheriff of Nottingham is throwing his gut around-”

“That’s not very Capitalist of you, comrade.”

Pull up behind an abandoned petrol station. Crowbar the rocker panels away. Stuff in the cash. Replace.

Pop Cocteau Twins into the player as dusk approaches.

Perfect timing: The titular track on Heaven or Las Vegas comes in just as you brush past the lit-up Welcome To Las Vegas sign.

You wanna pop into a 7-Eleven, grab up as much Red Bull and Monster as you can carry, and keep gunning it to Utah.

Walden wants to hit up every joint on the Strip and double the earnings.

“Or piss it all away,” you shoot back in the 7-’leven parking lot.

“Look at it. Neon-studded faux-model replicas of the wonders of the world. When the Castellammarese dust settled, and Bugsy came West, this-this is what he saw and died for. A place where you can piss away all your loot. ‘s beautiful.”

“We pull up to one joint. If you get pegged, I-”

“Caesar’s, please.”

You idle outside. Spooks everywhere, watchin’ out the corner a their eye. You freak. Circle the block.

Walden gives the business to the floorman, crossing his fingers the suit’s never seen Hard 8.

“I need somethin’ to keep track a what I’m spendin’. Compulsive gambler. Can I get a rate card?”

Word for word.

Slip a hundred-and-fifty. Exchange for dollar tokens.

Note on the card: Amount cashed. Time a day.   

Slot machine. Play twenty. Play slow. Make it last. One token at a time.

Drinks. Liquor’em up. Keep’em playin. One long-island won’t trip him up, though. Nothin’ trips up Walden except Walden.

Cashier. Hundred dollars in tokens. Ask for a bill.

“Twenties or single?”

“Single.”

Single bill with Franklin’s mug on it.

P.T.A. actually pulled this off in real life.

“Hi. Another hundred tokens. Here’s the rate card.”

Two-fifty on rate card. Only pissed away twenty on slot machine.

A monetary rinse cycle. Keep circling the bill. Watch it go round and round. Slowly spend the fifty. Put on a show for the floorman.

The slot machine taketh, It don’t give shit back. No cup or bucket for this guy, but that don’ matter.

Scoot into shotgun.

Flash the little black card.

“C’mon, let’s get a room. On me.”

Knock. This is it. Caught with your pants down.

“Housekeeping.”

Peep hole.

Little middle-aged Mexican lady. She can be a Spook.

Poke your head out and they put you in a headlock.

Walden. He’s a spook. He ghosted right outta there. A whisper on the wind.

Fuck it. You’ve seen enough Chuck Norris movies. And how many times have you drunkenly jump-kicked the air whenever Steven Segal was on TV?

When the feds swarm, you’re confident you can break their lock long enough to administer the Five-Finger Death Punch.

Crack your neck. Throw open the door.

On second glance she might be Puerto Rican.

No Spooks. This hallway is clean.

She picks the mini-bottles off the floor. Ransacked the whole mini-fridge.

Room service comes from one end of the hall. Walden, the other.

Walden takes his time. Swingers. He’s Vince Vaughn. You’re Jon Favreau.

You stuff your face. You understand the Wisdom of Hunter Thompson. You smile, teeth caked with cakes and syrup.  

Vegas isn’t where you come to find fear and loathing. Vegas IS fear and loathing.

Peace washes over you. Something akin to Nirvana as you gun north of Vegas.

Recedes. A sideshow gone awry. A toybox whose contents were spilled onto the desert floor. David Parker Ray’s Toybox.

Northeast. Western Utah. A state full of Spooks. Every Mormon’s a narc. All the missions packed to the brim with Federales. Feds hangin’ off the rafters.

“And all the Federales say...They could’ve had him any day…They only let him slip away…Out of kindness I suppose.”

Wendover’s a border town. Straddlin’ the Nevada-Utah line. Pass it on the I-80. No incident. To the right of it…

A densely packed salt pan. The Bonneville Flats.

Already got a spot picked out.

“Say, isn’t this where they shot Gerry?”

“Must be. Can’t imagine a better place to strangle Casy Affleck.”

“And by Jason Bourne, no less.”

Their Deadpan’s as dry as the salt pan they’re in.

Far end. Around the low hills. You scan for hikers. Walden throws off the panels and scoops most a the money into plastic bags. Wraps’em tight. Into the duffle. Duffle into the hole you two dug. Should be deep ‘nuff.

Wendover. Outdoor Café. Ball of live wire. He sez you did it. You still feel a jolt and sit upright. Live fuckin’ wire. Feels like you’re strapped. We did it. Ain’t gonna catch us. You’re ready to Kamikaze. You’re not wearin’ a suicide vest. You are a suicide vest. Jacked to the tits.

Walden scans the paper. Used car.

“Drop me off? ’s not far from here.”

You watch him pay. Cold hard cash.

How could something be so cold and hard be so hot too?

You watch him pick up the pink slip.

He tails you on the I-80. Then fishtails it off the interstate. So it goes.