In the Land of the Blind

“How long you been on the job?”

The experienced detective looked up from the scene. It had been a while since the sight of blood had bothered him, but the smell still took him back to his time wading though rice paddies.

He stood, knees creaking, and looked into the eyes of his trainee. Reaching for a Marlboro, he sighed. The Zippo flared, and smoke carried away the scent of gore unfolding three steps away.

“Long enough, kid.”

“I’ve been with the department for seven years. Not a kid.” The new detective squatted down, staring at rusted pools of what should never meet dawn’s early light. “I saw worse in Kandahar, but sometimes surviving is just an accident.”

Inhale. Exhale and a “Yep.”

“We shouldn’t see shit like this here. I used to think I’d made it home for a purpose. To do something special. To help.”

“Nope. We’re just lucky, not gifted. One-eyed men with a kingdom.” Another inhale, deeper than the last.

Smoke plumes, and minutes pass. A cough punctuates an otherwise quiet exhale.

“Ever thought about quitting?”

He has. “If I quit, I’ll die. Retired is just another word for useless.”

“I’m talking about the smokes.”

“Me too.”

The younger man looks up at the older one quizzically.

“The smell, kid. The smokes help keep the smell out of my nostrils.” He pauses, puffs, flicks ashes. “And dreams.”

Silence settles, and both veterans contemplate the dead.

Finally, the junior of the pair shrugs. “Any ideas, bossman?”

“Sure. Be careful on ML King Boulevard after dark.” As he walks away, he flicks the spent cowboy killer in the gutter, and it hisses in coppery mud.