Talk to nice sleep.

The hand sticks out of the ice like a sad greeting from a weird friend.

Hey pal, how's it going?

Me? Oh, I'm chill.

The hand is definitely in that.

What's up?

Position with a thumb and first two fingers up, and the last two fingers curled in a little.

That's what I imagine the owner of the hand would say if I could see them.

But I can't ask the owner their intention. All there is, is a hand. A severed hand.

Drained completely of blood, with not a single discolored cube of ice in the machine's bin.

Just a pale, blue hand, ready to have a good time.

Well, shit, I say to myself, and push my trucker hat up so I can scratch my bald head.

At least it's something to take my mind off the stack of unpaid bills sitting on my desk

in the motel office. Digging for something worth or shit?

Marlene calls out from her doorway.

Well, you ain't going to find it in there, you brainless fuck.

She cackles, coughs hard, hawks a lugy into her mouth,

then lets it fly out into the sun-baked parking lot.

Marlene, please stop spitting into the parking lot.

I tell her for the umpteenth time.

It's nasty.

And speaking of nasty, I turned my attention back to the hand.

...