I cut the mayor’s throat on the train and pushed him out a window of the passenger car when we crossed the canyon. The roar of churning locomotive wheels were loud enough to muffle his last wail of anguish, and it would be more than sufficient to mask the sound of his body splashing in the river below.
I opened a fresh pack of wet wipes and scrubbed the seats, my hands, and everything else the blood had touched. I let these flutter out the window and shut it tight. A few minutes later, the chime of the train’s announcement system rang cheerfully through the empty car.
“Next stop,” called the conductor, “Lasagna Town!”
I got up from my seat and pulled down my suitcase from the luggage rack above my seat. It contained my only possessions in the world, but that wasn’t true, was it? An entire city now belonged to me, and the train chugged quietly into its station, bearing home its last son: tyrant and savior, wealth and plague, fire and future.
I’m back, motherfuckers.
The train lurched to a halt, but not without a sudden jerk that jingled the blades in my suitcase. The doors opened and I stepped into the night air to meet a gathering of lamps outside the shack that served as Lasagna Town’s railway station. “All hail the new mayor,” one horsey voice called out from the lights. “All hail the new mayor,” echoed half a dozen grunts, growls, mewls, and chirps.