found page one laying on the gun room floor. It is a strange experience to see how I wrote then. I tried to stuff in everything I could, but the writing is the same. I'm surprised it's me in there. Too much purple stuff, though. Profanity removed for public viewing. For your amusement:
I guess the diesel engine Mick left in Stan's shop started it. Stan hadn't been himself since his son passed away. On the other hand....
"Shoot. He was like this before." Mick told me, the whites of his eyes widening like one of his yearlings when asked to perform something difficult,
like move thirty yards into a corral. He'd been born in that corral. He took the worst winter in 20 years in that corral. He was in that corral a week ago, and now he's forgotten where the gate is and you might as well ask him to step off the moon.
"Snap the whip. Snap the WHIP! Mick yelled. I flicked my wrist, the one attached to the hand holding the whip, but nothing happened. I mean, the leather moved and the thing snaked past, a slithering sound. Maybe the steer would be affected by the lack of a sound. He was so used to hearing the crack of a whip, its absence would have serious consequences, like the Grim Reaper and whispering death caressing his ear.
"Gawd Da---- Crack the WHIP! HIT 'EM IN THE HEAD." Mick furiously swung against the side of the animal's head, just missing an eye.
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAA! I roared at the beast and he scrambled towards the gate.
"Close the gawdamn gate, close the gate, close the gate."
I didn't know how to work the latch. I held it shut with my elbow. Not a good place for an arm you'd like to keep. If the steer pushed against the bar the bone would snap. I doubted the steer would notice the brief resistance. I hoped Mick didn't notice I couldn't shut a gate.
"Here. Put that bar in there. See?"
"Yeah."
"Look, when I tell you to hit a steer, hit 'em. You couldn't hurt that thing in a million years. He hardly even feels it."
"I did what I could. It was my crazy yell turned him."
"Bull-s---". He looked at me as if I were nuts. "My whip turned him."
"Gotcha."
"Good. I've been working stock for a long time. Course, if Stan was here I'm sure he woulda done it different. No one does it right except Stan." he said bitterly. "I asked him if he wanted his steer butchered the same day as mine. Now he's building a corral. Says he's gonna grain feed 'em. You can't get more meat on these without fat. Stan's steer is going to fat."
"Uh-huh. Stan say your cows make the water bad. Is this true?" I asked in an innocent voice.
The Imp, Jokester, horse laugh at the end of Time; I had no business getting into it. Except I wanted to know. Stan says so many things and sounds so right, and generally, he is. Every once in awhile though, he gets a little tweaked. I like to check up. I like to know what's going on.
"Shoot? He told you that? Lemme ask you something. In all the time you been renting from him, has he ever drained the septic tank?"
"No."
"Why do you think that is?" He looked at me like a bird of prey. "His and your crap roll right into the water! That's what's going on. Not my cattle. Stan thinks everything is someonelse's fault. Gawd---."
munk
I guess the diesel engine Mick left in Stan's shop started it. Stan hadn't been himself since his son passed away. On the other hand....
"Shoot. He was like this before." Mick told me, the whites of his eyes widening like one of his yearlings when asked to perform something difficult,
like move thirty yards into a corral. He'd been born in that corral. He took the worst winter in 20 years in that corral. He was in that corral a week ago, and now he's forgotten where the gate is and you might as well ask him to step off the moon.
"Snap the whip. Snap the WHIP! Mick yelled. I flicked my wrist, the one attached to the hand holding the whip, but nothing happened. I mean, the leather moved and the thing snaked past, a slithering sound. Maybe the steer would be affected by the lack of a sound. He was so used to hearing the crack of a whip, its absence would have serious consequences, like the Grim Reaper and whispering death caressing his ear.
"Gawd Da---- Crack the WHIP! HIT 'EM IN THE HEAD." Mick furiously swung against the side of the animal's head, just missing an eye.
"YAAAAAAAAAAAAA! I roared at the beast and he scrambled towards the gate.
"Close the gawdamn gate, close the gate, close the gate."
I didn't know how to work the latch. I held it shut with my elbow. Not a good place for an arm you'd like to keep. If the steer pushed against the bar the bone would snap. I doubted the steer would notice the brief resistance. I hoped Mick didn't notice I couldn't shut a gate.
"Here. Put that bar in there. See?"
"Yeah."
"Look, when I tell you to hit a steer, hit 'em. You couldn't hurt that thing in a million years. He hardly even feels it."
"I did what I could. It was my crazy yell turned him."
"Bull-s---". He looked at me as if I were nuts. "My whip turned him."
"Gotcha."
"Good. I've been working stock for a long time. Course, if Stan was here I'm sure he woulda done it different. No one does it right except Stan." he said bitterly. "I asked him if he wanted his steer butchered the same day as mine. Now he's building a corral. Says he's gonna grain feed 'em. You can't get more meat on these without fat. Stan's steer is going to fat."
"Uh-huh. Stan say your cows make the water bad. Is this true?" I asked in an innocent voice.
The Imp, Jokester, horse laugh at the end of Time; I had no business getting into it. Except I wanted to know. Stan says so many things and sounds so right, and generally, he is. Every once in awhile though, he gets a little tweaked. I like to check up. I like to know what's going on.
"Shoot? He told you that? Lemme ask you something. In all the time you been renting from him, has he ever drained the septic tank?"
"No."
"Why do you think that is?" He looked at me like a bird of prey. "His and your crap roll right into the water! That's what's going on. Not my cattle. Stan thinks everything is someonelse's fault. Gawd---."
munk