Rosa rolls onto her side as translucent love oozes down her brown thigh. She hasn’t been fucked like that since she was in the bug-house. And that time they had to hold her down. She crawls across the big, fuck-stained mattress towards Queenan. His bloodstained pillow looks like a Rorschach blot. His eyes are open, fixed on nothing in particular. Rosa offers him a sliver of smile. He blows her a brief kiss across the mattress before reaching across and probing her smear of fur noncommittally. Rosa glances back at the bloody pillow. Psychoanalysts used to use the inkblot test as a method of psychological evaluation. When a patient was reluctant to openly admit to psychotic thought patterns the ink test helped to differentiate between psychotic and non-psychotic thinking. Always sounded like bullshit to Rosa. Queenan’s forefinger makes her tingle inside. Surely this much happiness can kill. She hears a knock at the window. Some skinny white guy. A withered, unwashed dirt-bag with a brickwork complexion. The guy from the cantina. Queenan fumbles underneath the bed. When they moved into this motel room he fixed his gun under the bed with an old piece of carpet tape. Queenan aims at the guy from the cantina. The nosebleed just grins. The window shatters in a spurt of red. The mooch slumps towards the dead window frame, his eyes still loaded with after dinner payback. He slurs a threat at Queenan. Queenan sighs and tentatively scratches his bar-wound. This crank was stubborn like a shit-stain. Queenan stands up and shoots him again. Rosa hears his eyeball pop. Outside, the blood-coloured Texas moon shimmers in the desert breeze.