The 1967 Camaro idled with a strong purr while Carson walked to the trunk. Muffled yelling and the sounds of kicking grew louder. Agitation. It hit every person different. He opened the hatch, looking into the dark hiding place that was a temporary home for this "outstanding issue"...
He leaned in and removed the gag from his passenger. The still-bound man gasped for air while trying to move himself away from his captor. Carson knew there was no other way.
"If you're gonna kill me, then just fucking do it already!" said the worn out trunk inhabitor.
"I'm gonna let you choose how this goes." Carson said to his guest.
The man kept steady eye contact as he pulled himself closer to the opening.
"Road's about ten miles that way. El Paso is a few more beyond that. Sound fair?"
The trunk rider raises himself to a sitting position as he thinks it over.
"Ain't like I gotta say in this..."
"Sure ya do. You could walk out of here and keep on living your life any way you see fit."
"Or?"
"Or... I could feed you to the coyotes. Right here. Right now."
The man knows his only play is to walk away from this without bitterness, OR half the money in that over-stuffed duffle bag that was once his. Decisions, decisions...
"Help me outta here..." he said as his soon-to-be ex-friend grabbed him by the left arm, tugging upward.
"You gonna cut these?" he asked referring to his wrist and ankle rope bindings.
Carson obliged. He then reached into his pocket and handed the man a small wad of cash.
"You got three hours before sunrise. Make 'em count." Carson said closing the trunk and walking to the driver's door of that rumbling muscle car.
The man took a few steps, settling in to his new limp when he turned and looked his former friend in the eye.
"Almost forgot" Carson said pulling his .38 - sending a round into the man's knee.
"Now, we're even..."
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