The corpse lies still upon the earth, the crater in its head a sure sign it won’t get up again. I stand panting in the cold morning, my breath, coming out in little, white puffs, rising with the foggy air. The tire iron is sticky now with the black ooze that came from the dead man’s head; the viscous glop, dripping a little, mostly congeals upon the makeshift weapon. I set it back down on the hood and scan my misty white surroundings. How many more such mad and murderous corpses were out there? And where in hell was I?
Shillelagh | Part I
Tale Told 