December 2008
4 posts
4
“I’m getting old,” Daniel peeved at the dusty mirror as he scraped a straight razor over the steely whiskers jutting from his chin’s narrow bones. The day was a newborn, all pale yellow and rose: a pretty bonnet on a shitting, screaming nightmare. Anton grunted noncommittally in his direction, inwardly awash with nausea. Why didn’t he worry about age? He had read once...
3
Chigurh is limp hair casting its shadow over one hollow, dark eye. His scent is clean socks. His sound is the scrape of thrashing boot heels, dying on the floor of a sheriff’s office. Plainview glances over at him during their long drives through unending American vistas and none of this registers on him. He sees only useful, or unusable. He smells only oil. He hears only the thrashing of a...
2
Daniel Plainview cradles the deafened body of his son, choking on anguish, making a sound only dogs can hear. He looks to Anton for something, anything, some semblance of empathy, but Chigurh is unmoved. He rests against a half-burned rack of timber, flipping a coin over his smooth fingers and back again. “I have never hated anyone in the precise manner and degree to which I hate you,”...
1
Chigurh holds the pressurized chamber to the stunned man’s temple, thinking of very little, perhaps pancakes. As the pin releases, a brief gurgle of blood oozes from this unfortunate’s ear. “Like oil from an old well,” Plainview says to noone in particular. “What do you mean,” Chigurh replied, as was his custom.