Meth War

Beaten almost beyond recognition, Butch Holland lay sprawled out against the west bank’s rocky outcropping of the long, since dried up, Santa Ana Riverbed. God only knows what would possess someone to give a man a beating this bad. Whoever it was, that did this to him, did the dirty deed so methodically rich in evil, that just a glimpse sent shivers down Jimbo’s spine; making the short hairs on the back of his neck stand on end at full attention. He couldn’t help but look over his shoulder, scanning his immediate surroundings. Hoping that whoever did this horrible thing wasn’t hiding in the brush and eyeballing him with intentions of doing the same damn thing to him. By the looks of this dude, he’d been out there for a day or two at least, no more than three- or four-days tops. Any more time than that, he’d have been picked on by hungry predators indigenous to the area. As it was, the body was already surrounded by a halo of flies.