You know, I begged my Daddy to shoot
me. I hit the bastard and he hit me back. It was brutal and
physical. I was drunk. He was drunk. Some folks were terrified, but I
was of the mind that 'this is only getting started, so let's get
this the fuck over with'.
(If violence offends you, then run and hide...bury your
head...curl to fetal...I would strongly suggest it, because it was about to get ugly.)
The brawl spilled onto and off the
porch to the lot of slop we call 'the front forty', In truth, its a shit pile and no more
than a ¼ acre. Dogs, hogs, and the lot, commonly use the lot to relieve their
refuse reflex. After a chaotic while in that shit pile, the arms,
chest, legs, they get encased in waste and you start to tire from the
weight of all that shit. That's when I asked him, "How do you know you're my old man? He was dumbstruck and had no
answer. Then things got funny. And you reconcile with the old man in
another weak moment, guard down, no matter how vulgar a man he might be. The window opens and you breathe deep, and for a while, like so many times
before, he just can't hurt you no more.
He died later that month, while I kept
my distance, he slipped into a three day coma and passed a day later.
They had my number, but no one called. I figure it was his last wish, and his final
blow.
V
