The Shootist Orders Breakfast

I travel unfamiliar roads, uncertain of my destination bumping along in  squealing oxcart, much to my embarrassment.  I desire to be a man that can kill and clean game without leavings in the flatland territories.

Hah, I say, I always say, hah in my dreams. All in green riding Where’s my horse? I could be driving an eight-cylinder Studebaker,  gurgling as the ignition shuts down, the hood shimmering in the farmyard heat. Welcome, says the woman, looking like my Aunt Mary, wearing a print housedress and brown cotton pinafore. You’ll be staying with us tonight, but no funny business.

Sure, I’m tired and want to rest, without the challenge of making love to your daughter, her beauty undeniable, my cock troubled by circumstance, this all murmured under my breath, as I pull off my cotton drawers. Laying me down, my prayers short.

Morning early in my eyes as I bridle my horse and load my small caliber Winchester in the early cool of the morning before the English choirs sing.  I do manage some distance before pulling the trigger, rifle pointing the way to ecstasy. No birds sing, My horse waiting for me to remount.

The sun also rises. Eggs sunny side up, and bacon fragrant in the diner. Bucking up my shoulders, I  piss in the dirty toilet, seat raised. Hand washing limited, the tap needing one constant hand. Me thinking – my parents taught in schools like these. Leaving, I pass sunflowers heavy with seeds ready for harvest, the factory pressing.


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