Ain't Talkin'

Cause the simple man, baby. pays for thrills, the bills, the pills, that kill.

Oh, but ain’t that America. For you and me.

It was something around the thirtieth time the tape had rolled over, but neither man said a world. The charge kept on driving and the walker kept a lit cigarette near the window, ashing into the wind. Neither man could complain. Roche had grown up on records stockpiled in the old library where he grew up, listing to this, that n’ the other thing.

As for Markus, well he was a cultured kid, not many of them left around. And he was the kind who appreciated music. And if he didn’t, well, he wasn’t stupid enough to say anything about it, probably because he was unsure if Roche would put a bullet in him.

“See that?” Roche asked.

“What?”

Roche pointed over the dashboard with his cigarette. A few small rolling hills stilled against the horizon in the Mojave, covered in dead trees and an old factory building with a metal radio spire. “Turn off here. That’s the old Spooner factory.”

“Spooner?”

“That’s what it says on the side of the building, lackwit. It’s just outside Parmiskus, a mile out, tops. Turn off this exit.”

Alex Markus rolled the wheel right and took the exit, thankfully free of debris and too much sand. The dust squealed under the turning wheels and the road opened up.

“Parmiskus still nice?”

“Nice? ’Bout as nice as any place, kid. Whores and gambling and a couple saloons. Ain’t all bad.”

“Didn’t know you were a whoring man, Roche.”

“I ain’t.”

“Because of the mysterious girl?”

“The fuck did I say about talking!?”