Along the edge of the long dry riverbed he rides-- a silhouette in the wavy heat. Even from a distance you can sense the malice, the insanity that runs through his veins electric and frenzied, making your own blood course faster, crazier, under more pressure, like a supernatural long distance transfusion you neither need nor want. He rides closer, slow and deliberate, madness turning the static coils of his brain into writhing snake coils, madness you can see oozing out of his dark eyes, and you just know that if he lowered the bandana from his mouth, a long, skinny, forked tongue would flicker out, sizing you up, zeroing in on your scent, planning the fatal strike. He dismounts and walks towards you, still slow and deliberate, savoring your fear, feasting on it, drunk with it, then slowly pulls down the bandana and he's smiling, you knew he would be, and he pulls the knife. It gleams in the sun, blinding you, until you feel the cold steel on your neck, slicing swift and sure. Faintly, as if off in the distance, you can hear him laugh as you feel no pain, just a fading away, warm blood soaking your chest, warm urine soaking your jeans, and you wonder how with all that warmth, you can feel so cold, as the darkness begins to spread, just like the blood and urine, spreading wide and fast, and you wonder why it's taking so long to die. He watches you until it is done, wipes his blade, and rides on.