text: (I wrote this as a spur of the moment idea let me know if it's worth continuing/fully fledging it out.) &#x200B; This summer was forecasted to be the hottest in California history. The sun beat down on the 108 degree sand as a tall, thin, man shouldered a rifle and fired a few shots. Unfortunately for the man on the receiving end of the shots Jonathan was a talented marksman. The sound of bullet ripping through flesh was a unique one at that, the wet slap of the target being hit followed by the projectile planting itself in the sand with a hard thud. The wounded man clutched his chest as he fell to the ground, praying that this not be the end for him. He flipped himself over just in time to see Jonathan walk up to him, the M16 rifle still fully attached to his shoulder. “Spill it, samuel.” He barked at the wounded man, pushing his weapon further in his face. “You and I...” Sam took pained breaths as his hands shook uncontrollably. “Both know that can’t happen.” “I don’t want to do this to you Sam!” Jonathan held onto the barrel of his gun like his life depended on it. He didn’t want to kill his friend, that’s the absolute last thing he wanted out of this. “Just do it Jon! Do what you have to do! Get it over with!” Sam knew he wasn’t making it out of this desert, he knew he was never seeing the hollywood streets again, he was okay with it. This city has taken more out of him than he could have ever predicted. “Jonathan!” Sam screamed at him, sitting up to put the barrel of the gun to his forehead. “C’mon just talk! I don’t want to do this, Man!” Jon had tears in his eyes as he took his finger off of the side of the gun, placing it firmly on the trigger. His hand was shaking. He didn’t want to have to be the one to pull the trigger, responsible for the death of a dear friend. “It has to be you.” Sam spoke quietly. “You know they won’t let me-” Sam’s words were cut off by the ear piercing sound of the rifle finally relieving the tension in the air. The sound of the soul being removed from his body and smacking against the sand was all that Jonathan had left. He threw the rifle to the ground and dropped to his knees, unleashing an awful, painful scream into the hot air. Several minutes went by before he brought himself to his feet, picking up the rifle and walking back towards the old blue truck they came in. He slung the rifle into the bed of the truck before opening the door and driving off. The car witch once carried two men started up with a rumble and Jon began driving away from the man he once, called a friend. As he disappeared into the horison, the sound of vultures could be heard above the scene of the crime.