"ATTENTION: WARNING! Grossly coarse language", Caleb Ezra Morse, Celtic Cross with Swastika center tattoo, Eighty-eight fourteen, Florida, Interlachen Drive, MAGA, Pasco County, SCPL, Seven Eleven, State Road Fifty-four and Gunn Highway, Thor’s Hammer, Trinity Florida
ATTENTION: WARNING! Grossly coarse language.
Even with the sun low in the sky it was hot, and Caleb’s long-sleeve tee made him that much warmer. Caleb hated hiding his Eighty-eight fourteen and Celtic Cross with Swastika center tattoos, but the fewer eye catching and identifying marks people saw on him the better. If not for the Florida heat, Caleb would have covered the Thor’s Hammer on his throat with a turtleneck, but the point of camouflage was to make him less conspicuous and memorable, not more so.
Before heading into the Seven-Eleven, Caleb had placed his oversized, retro, mirrored, fake Ray-Ban aviator sunglasses on his face and SCPL ballcap on his head. The sunglasses helped hide the tear tattoo that adorned the far side of Caleb’s right cheekbone and the Southern Christian Poverty Law Center cap was just too fucking funny not to wear. Caleb had handed two twenties to the sand nigger behind the counter, told him, “Pump four,” and left before he’d allowed his overwhelming desire to ask the paunchy, middle-aged, balding man if his name was Apu in his best Jig-Abdul voice. Caleb would have loved to give the Muzzie shit, but his mission came first.
Screwing the cover back on the van’s gas tank, Caleb gave the Seven Eleven’s No Smoking sign the finger as he lit up another cigarette and slid into the van’s driver’s seat. His cash reserve was lower than he liked but the four things that make the world go around, food, gas, grass and ass, all took money. “Well, I guess ass is free, if you take it,” he chuckled.
Caleb smiled as he turned south on Gunn Highway. Despite the odd sensation at seeing his dead daughter’s doppelganger and the time he’d wasted attempting to find a way to Hot Mama’s via Robert Trent Jones from the east, Caleb felt confident that he was homing in on his prey. Tossing the SPCL ballcap on the seat next to him he donned his red Make America Great Again hat. “Elohim,” he said, slapping his right turn signal down as he spied the Interlachen Drive traffic light, “please guide your humble servant as he does your will. For this in Jesus’ name I pray.”