Last night I dreamed a movie I can’t remember. At a diner just off #1 before or after Kenora a young man in jeans and a flannel shirt, billowing over his t-shirt taut over his flat stomach pulls out a double-barreled shotgun from his gym bag and shoots the place up. The young gunman takes special pleasure in shooting two men with five o’clock shadows in the abdomen, spilling their guts, slipping, like their lives, through their dirty fingers.
A baby blue mint ford falcon convertible, must be September 1963, pulls up in front of the sunset diner, the fresh faced driver and his girlfriend hesitating just long enough to witness the killings. The driver throws the gearshift into reverse, his girlfriend throws up over the side. Tires spit gravel, a touch of the brake, a turn of the wheel, and gone, long gone heading on down the highway until stopped by a huge heavy mesh fence, being held open a crack by a divining rod. The driver grabs his girl out of the open convertible, leaving her lip-sticked cigarette smouldering in the ash tray, running for the only way out of here.