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wrappers strewn about the floor. He opened the cabinet and removed the small container of coffee grinds, measuring enough for a couple of large cups. He grabbed the gallon jug of water next to the machine and poured in the right amount. Some townspeople loved Botte’s tap water, for a reason Mason couldn’t understand. To him it tasted like sulphur, or rotten eggs, but the locals didn’t seem to notice. He refused to drink it, or anything made with it, he found it ruined the taste of everything it touched. The smell of coffee percolating into the pot began temporarily to replace the smell of grime infused into the house.
    He sipped the coffee, slowly letting the hot liquid travel down his throat and into his stomach. The rush of heat felt good. He opened the refrigerator and stared at the bleak offerings. A pack of lunchmeat that sprouted a fungal garden was next to a carton of eggs and a twelve-pack of beer. The expiration date on the eggs told him they were still good for another week. He looked around the kitchen noticing his frying pan was still dirty in the sink, where it had been for longer than he could remember. Small dots of rust peppered the surface. Fuck it , he thought. If Stallone can do it, so can I . He cracked an egg on the counter and opened it over his waiting mouth. The egg sloshed to the back of his throat, going down with little effort. It happened so fast that he didn’t even taste it. Not very satisfying. He removed a beer from the fridge and poured the contents into one of the few clean glasses. He cracked three eggs into the glass and drank it down. Not bad . Tastes like beer .
    With breakfast finished, Mason trudged back to his dirty bedroom and stumbled over a pair of work boots. He kicked a pile of clothes out of the way and removed his uniform from the closet. It was standard police issue blues, and he slipped it on. The pants were starting to feel a little snug, as if the years of fast food and drinking had started to catch up to him, though he was still slender and had good muscle tone, the lucky winner of genetic lottery. He gave himself one final look-over in the bathroom mirror. A little aftershave balm to his face and a spritz of cologne added another cover to hide behind. He cleaned up well for a man who was on the verge of giving up.
    Magazines, clothes, and a pair of panties—the owner he could not remember—called themselves to his attention, as he snapped on his duty belt holstering his police issued 9mm. He’d clean up when he got home, he said to himself. He said the same thing every day, and had yet to follow through with the promise. The blades on the box fan in the corner slowed to a stop at the flick of a switch, leaving the humid, swampy air stagnant as Mason closed and locked his door.
    The brutal Louisiana sun beat down. His shirt instantly felt damp and clung to his skin. Botte appeared to have only two seasons: half a month of bitter cold, and 11 and a half months of intense heat. He hated it, and once inside his old black Bronco, Mason cranked the AC and lowered the windows to let the cold air push out the hot from the truck.
    His house was situated just outside downtown Botte, and the drive offered a picturesque view of the bayou. Tall cypress trees jutted out of the water, their crooked knees serving as perches for swamp birds and raccoons. Occasionally, Mason would spot an alligator sunning itself on the bank as he drove. He didn’t see any today. Botte didn’t contain any traditional neighborhoods, and most dwellings were half a mile apart, allowing for plenty of privacy. Past downtown, more homes were nestled on the bayou side of the interstate and resembled fishing camps more than traditional houses. Quite a few of the older residents lived down that way, either retired fisherman, or retired city folks who wanted a place to just get away from it all, and live out the rest of their days in peace. They would get that in Botte. The town was as exciting as going to