Thing was so rusty my ma sworn it’d never work but she took the bullets out anyways, something about not liking to have a loaded gun in the house. She had left the seven odd bullets hiding in a little red tin jar in the back of the cupboard. She never told Da where the bullets were, but maybe he just never asked.
Seemed like a good idea until a week later Sheriff Hardy showed up and said my Da was a bad man. Said he killed the two old folks living down the block and didn’t think twice, shot em straight through with the old heirloom hanging on the living room wall in one of them drunk fits.
Me, I never liked Mr. and Mrs. Beckers anyways, especially after Buster ended up shot dead on their front lawn, small scraggly frame reduced to shreds.
Said it was the last time they’d have my filthy mutt chewing at their roses. Continue reading “Seven Odd Bullets by Maxwell Park”