Out Of The Frying Pan

Wind howled around the rock outcroppings and scrub grass of the desolate wasteland. Eddies of sand pirouetted, live things, punishing all that stood before them. It was this severe environment that Lance Treliving awoke to.

His boss, Henry (The Hammer), Pirelli had warned Lance of what would come of him if he failed to deliver the goods on time. Had impressed upon him the repercussions! It wasn’t as though Lance hadn’t heeded the admonitions of The Hammer, however, he had to push things to the extreme. Always a bigger payoff, too much was never enough for Lance. Now it appeared that he would pay the ultimate price.

The deal had been botched right from the start. The accomplice, Lance had enlisted, a guy who insisted on being called Samuel, turned out to be as shady as he was. More so, he’d stranded Lance in this rotten stink-hole of a town, Furnace Creek, California. The population of this ruin of a village was only 136 forgotten souls, actually up from the 24 inhabitants from the prior census. Lance couldn’t understand why anyone would live in this awful place. It’s only claim to fame: having had the highest recorded temperature on the planet, 134 degrees Fahrenheit!

Lance knew that The Hammer flying in from New York was a bad sign. The Boss hated California, especially this god-forsaken desert. Lance backpedalled, tried to explain to The Hammer how the shipment and the SUV rental had disappeared. Tried to relate that he would’ve doubled, perhaps even tripled the money to be made from the deal if his dickhead partner hadn’t screwed off with it. Too late he’d seen the nod of the boss to the goon behind him. The blow was from a sap, a sock filled with rocks, hard enough to stun him but not fracture his skull. Lance had been groggy at best throughout the trip into the desert. He had no idea just how far they’d travelled. Beaten, then unceremoniously dumped, he was left to die a slow anguished death.

Now, three days later, stuck in the desert, no phone, (having been crushed under The Hammer’s boot), no food and worst of all no water! Temporary salvation presented itself in the form of a car that Lance ran into as he shielded his eyes from the sandstorm. It was an old, stripped bare dinosaur of a vehicle. Lance yanked on the door, locked! He was exhausted, didn’t have the strength to break through the glass. He had to get in, to shield himself from the swirling winds. He lurched to the rear. The trunk, it was open! Lance tumbled inside to escape the tempest and hauled down on the hood, sealing his fate.

Lance always knew that the life of a drug mule could lead to trouble. Upon awakening hours later, he realized his plight, there was no way out! His pounding and pleas for help went unheeded. Severe dehydration sapped his strength. Lance died 40 yards from the ranch where he’d met with The Hammer. His final garbled words were; “This isn’t my fault. It was Samuel, he’s to blame.”