Somewhere, In Mexico
By
Jon Birchwood

The blinding noon day sun bakes the cracked ground and turns it into a crumbling crust that could neither hold water nor support organic life. As far as the eye can see the crust extends to the horizon and beyond touching the dry, indigo sky. A lone tree stands in this frying pan expanse of land, the only proof of the ancient life that had once thrived here. Three figures are under the tree, two standing and one hanging from a rope by a straining tree branch.

The man's eyes bulged out of their sockets and his face turned black in a twisted stare of agony that only the most intense and gruesome torture could create. He had frozen like this for the past five minutes dying and screaming in his mind while the two men he thought were his amigos watched in amusement.

The Irishman was covered in blisters and sun poisoning that completely obscured the tattoos covering the lower part of his face and arms. Normal sunlight was already bad enough on his fair skin, but this scorcher was boiling him from the inside-out. The Mexican, thanks to his dark skin, was free of any skin damage. Both stared at the man they had hung with manic, laughing eyes. At some point, the Irishman had even started to chuckle while the man was still kicking on the end of the rope, but now he just smiled and watched in silent enjoyment.

Finally, after five minutes of struggling, the man stiffened and froze, swinging from side to side. The two sadists let the man swing watching him slowly and painfully disappear from the world of the living. The rope cut into the man's neck, tightening and tightening until it nearly vanished into his throat.

Satisfied that he was finally dead, the Mexican approached the swinging corpse and grabbed it by the arm. The corpse quit swinging and hung there before the Mexican, eyes bulging, face as black as night. The Mexican laid a soot smeared hand over the corpse's still heart and concentrated on the spot under his palm. His clothes and face were also smeared with soot along with a few charred spots on his jacket and pants.

For a moment, all was silent in the frying pan. Not even a breeze rustled the dry, twisted limbs of the tree. A sizzling sound soon broke the silence. The sizzling was coming form under the Mexican's hand, from under the corpse's shirt.

The Irishman's manic expression turned to pure insanity as he started to chuckle again.

The Mexican started to sweat and from the curled ends of his black mustache, small plumes of smoke began to rise. Similar plumes puffed out of the corpse's nose and gapping mouth. The Mexican's eyes and grin widened into a purely evil expression that only the most dangerous of asylum inhabitants would wear.

"Quema," he whispered.

The corpse's eyes and mouth exploded into sparks and flames of such intensity that they soon engulfed the entire head. The flames spread to the corpse's shoulders and up the rope into the branches of the dead, dry tree. The Irishman burst into a violent fit of laughter upon seeing the explosion, hateful and mocking laughter. The Mexican backed away and the Irishman soon followed.

They both stood in the noon day sun and watched the tree burn to the ground.