Author's Note: While on vacation, my ipod reset and lost all my songs. So on the drive back, I had nothing to listen to but old (mostly scratched) cds. Luckily one of my favorite songs on the Counting Crows Album, Cowboys, was not scratched. So I listened to the same song for essentially 10 hours straight on repeat, and in my head wrote this story.
If you haven't heard the song I highly recommend it (though maybe not on repeat for 10 hours).
New Note: Apparently there is an entire underground community I did not know about that likes to go around looking for stories to report. It has a problem with me using parts of the lyrics as framing references. Which is a shame, because my entire interest in the story is dividing the song up into chapters. It's unfortunate these trolls exist in the creative community, but I don't feel like fighting with strangers, so I'm gutting my favorite aspect of the story.
I have to be honest, without the lyrics I may not have the inspiration to finish this story.
To get around this minor technicality, I would advise googling the lyrics. It's so arbitrary that the forum encourages you to play with parts of intellectual property and forbids you to creatively play with others. Such a shame.
It seemed every other streetlamp was burnt out, as Mike drove down the darkened streets of Los Angeles. The road ahead seemed pitch black in comparison to his knuckles, which glowed white from the tight grip of both his hands on the steering wheel. His eyes stayed locked ahead, unseeing, as he concentrated on nothing but the road and the task before him.
The radio plays softly in the background, but is unheard over the roar of Mike's thoughts, until the soft familiar strums of a guitar catch his attention.
He stares at the radio, positive that he's being haunted by a ghost.
The song Desperado is playing.
Bello's favorite song.
Mike hasn't thought about the gangster in months, but the song suddenly makes him realize the very memory of Bello has been haunting him silently in the background all along. The ghost of Bello has been wrapping around Mike's neck, seeping into his skin, poisoning him. Mike looks in the rearview mirror and his blue eyes are blood shot and empty. He is no longer the white knight. He was dark and twisted, prepared to do whatever was necessary to achieve his ends. He was no different than Bello.
What had Bello called them? Oh yes. Cowboys.
Mike was no longer on the right side of the law. He was an outlaw. A cowboy.
No matter how pure his motives may have started off, somehow desperation had led him to break the rules in pursuit of his own brand of vigilante justice. Mike could dress it up with as many pretty justifications and rationales as he wanted, but in his heart he knew what this was he was intending to do.
It was murder.
The idea of it makes his stomach twist, but he's surprised with how easily that feeling passes. Mike has killed men before, but he's never murdered anyone. Is this really all that different? Either way, the world will hold one less man.
"…You better let somebody love you, before it's too late." The song fades quietly to an end, and Mike can't help but smirk at the irony of the last words of the song.
It was too late. He had lost her love when he broke his word and rescued Paige instead of Leena from that hellhole she'd been trapped in. He didn't have a doubt that he loved her, but all the love in his heart wouldn't be enough to save his damned soul. He was now truly lost. She would never love him after he committed this crime. He would never deserve her love.
But she would be safe.
With new determination, Mike parks the car on the side of the street. He doesn't even remember driving here, but it's only once he turns the engine off and is left in an eerie silence, that he realizes how lost in thought he was.
Somewhere in the distance he hears a muffled pounding and some people screaming, though that may just be his heart trying to escape his chest. He catches his eyes beginning to drift to the passenger seat beside him, and forces his gaze straight ahead again, refusing to look at what he knows the seat holds.
He turns his head to the left, away from the seat, and stares at the house across the street. There is a lone light burning out of the living room window. The other houses on the street are dark. As Mike stares out at the window, the person who he knows occupies the house, his resolve hardens along with his jaw. This has to be done. This evil has to be stopped.
He finally turns to the seat next to him. The seat is empty except for the gun that gleams against the black leather of the seat. The only other thing occupying the seat is an old rumpled piece of paper.
Mike hesitates momentarily looking between the two. The gun is powerful. It's silver shining in the moonlight. The paper looks weak in comparison. He doesn't even know why he brought it.
Yes, he does. He brought it because it was his childhood drawing that Paige had thrown back in his face when she screamed at him about how he had changed, and everything he said was now lies.
She was right of course. She always was. Even now as he stares at the paper, Mike is realizing a part of him is still hoping Paige will somehow save him from himself. The childhood scrawl is fading on the worn paper, much like Mike's resolve to serve his country as an FBI agent. It just isn't enough. There's too much evil in the world. He was naïve to think he could fight it and win as an FBI agent.
He reaches out and wraps his hand around the cool handle of the pistol. He swings his feet out of the car to touch the road, but somehow he can't leave the car. He finally turns back and grabs the piece of paper, shoving it roughly into his back pocket. He can't leave it behind. He has to carry it along to feel the weight of all the dreams he's giving up.
Mike walks up the lawn, avoiding the sidewalk to the door. He crouches below the window, hidden from sight from the street by the shrubbery. He needs to look inside the house. Plot out how he will execute his plan.
Peaking up, hidden by the darkness of the night by any insiders, Mike finally looks in through the glass, his eyes swiftly lock on his prey.
Detective Sid Markum stands in the middle of the yellow living room. It's a sparsely decorated house, clearly a bachelor pad. There's a couch, a tv that looks like it's from the eighties, a lamp, and a mismatched coffee table. There's a messy desk in the corner with a ripped office chair.
Sid, is not sitting though. He's standing in the middle of the room, wearing a wrinkled dress shirt and a tie that is as always just slightly crooked. He's holding a glass of whiskey and talking to himself. Mike can't hear what he's saying, but watches as Sid laughs to himself, and Mike smirks smugly.
"That's right jackass, laugh now at your own stupid jokes. By the time tonight's done you won't be laughing." Mike mutters under his breath.
Mike has seen all he needs to see. He begins to shift positions quietly to sneak around back, but then something stops him dead in his tracks. His blood races cold as he stares into the window and realizes he has made a crucial mistake.
Sid is not talking himself.
Sid is talking to the beautiful blonde who walks sultrily out of the kitchen into the living room and clinks glasses her whiskey glass against his.
God no. Anyone but her.
Anyone but Paige.
