We’ve been reduced to scavengers in our own land, picking at revolution with a dull axe and hoping that the boom falls true. But our king’s legs are made of military-grade high-carbon steel.
Gray makes gin in his bathtub and hands it out at our local meetings, which are held in the hollowed out basement of a grime slicked giant brick remnant from inner city that we’d tricked ourselves into believing served as armor against the world. Tethered straps neatly severed. The Grand Ol’ Boys and their Dixie decked Old Guard don’t come ‘round here too much because the boys upstairs are of Mississippi stock and Memphis bred, and the goddamn sweet line of sight they’ve got for a half mile in each direction gives em license to shoot the hair off a possum’s ass at 150 yards.
It’s a relative sort of peace.