Annie got herself a gun,
blew a hole through his rear window:
crackling of spiders spread across the glass.
“Dang, woman. What you go and do that for?”
Everette feigned stupidity. Wasn’t hard. Pigs had more
frontal lobe sense than Everette ever would.
“Grandpa always said, ‘That Everett
Harley is a book you can judge by the cover.’
Indicating to me,” Annie paused. Pointed the gun at his
Junk. Cocked it. “the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Kill me? Is that what you gonna do?”
Months before, Everett’s old man had been found
naked, bull riding Annie’s lonely, widowed mother,
outraging Everette’s momma, of course, as according to
Pastor Regis, they (Everette’s parental pairing) had been torn asunder by Annie’s momma.
“Quaint how you and your daddy’s so much alike.”
Remembering her Josey Wales
she said, “Dyin’ ain’t much of a living, boy.” Followed by,
“Two-timing son-of-a -bitch!”
Unmoved by his puny ass excuses,
vindictive and hell bent, Annie started
waving her gun like a mallet, across the east to west to east distance of a
“Y’all better start dancing,” and pop pop pop.
Zig zagging, Everette dodged his fate. For now.