Sunday, September 30, 2007

September Morn

For the Wordsmiths.


Damn, if it weren't so freaking cold everything'd be easier.

Shit. Temps in the teens. Nothing's like it should be. That girl won't shut the fuck up. I can hear her screaming out there. This was supposed to be easy. Fuck.

What the hell is winter doing closin' in so soon? We was supposed to have had a bunch of time to ease her into likin' us. This cold ain't gonna do us a lick a' good, you know? She's holerin' out there just like she's at a revival meetin' and prob'ly someone on the state road is gonna hear her. Shit.

Sad fact is that this early snow ain't gonna stop people from coming up the holler in search of Uncle Hilly's sourwood honey. I try to look on the bright side, but there ain't one here. Daggone it, somebody's gonna hear her now that we had to move her to the barn. You know damn well that if it were warm out she'd not be yellin for another blanket, not be yelling about her damn feet, not BE yelling about somebody pleeze be savin' her fine ass. If it were still warm out she'd be nested down in the barn like the animal she is, mooing and knucklin' under. We could watch her then, if it were warm out.

Hell, if it were warm out, like it's supposed to be in September, we could have her out by the blue hole, all lathered up and ready for fun, blindfolded and helpless like we'd planned. But it ain't warm, is it, and city girl's got a mouth on her as wide as Aunt Essie's hips, by Gawd and all.

Daggone it. She's still fuckin' yelling. Goats in the barn won't give milk with that wailing going on. We need that milk more than we need her. Somebody's gotta stop it, Enis, and you know it. Somebody's gotta either set her free or end it. It's been long enough. Three month's fun is done and gone now. We either let her go or we end it all. She's cold, Enis. Her feet are hard as ice. She's yellin' and hurtin'. We gotta to do somethin'.

It was your idea, anyhow.

You decide. We got to do somethin', or Jubal Gomes from down the town is gonna hear her on patrol come 8, and I don't like the idea of him comin' up here anyhow. He's got the knick on us since the Bailey kid gone missin', and I ain't never heard from you that she wadn't one a yours anyhow.

Enis. You decide.

City girl is cold, but she's fightin'. One hammer blow'd do it, Enis. One hit. Do it, Enis, and I won't tell the cops about Kaitlyn Bailey's tiny thumb what as you keep in your bedside table. Do it, or go to prison, Enis, because this was all your idea.

I would'a taken her in spring, is all I'm sayin'.

Good boy Enis. Yes, I love you.

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