The voice from my throat growled above the clamor of my brother’s 78 Skylark, “You said women?”

“Yeah, Billy, lots of women, just across the bridge in Vicksburg. You know, that little brothel the sheriff runs.”

“Names,” spat my voice.

“What?”

“They got names? The whores?”

My brother shot me a queer look, “Sure, Billy. There’s, uh, Tallulah…Gigi…Lil McGill, and, uh…Yentil.” If the thing driving my body got the joke there wasn’t any sign of it. Nor was there any sign of suspicion as the car rolled to a stop at a bridge, the wrong bridge for going to Vicksburg, an old, out of use wreck of iron and lumber.

“Where’s the women?”

“Other side the bridge,” came the response as the keys slid out of the ignition, “We have to walk.” My body shrugged and lurched out of the car, quickly making an ambling route towards the bridge.

I could see the bridge, darkness on the other side. I saw the stars in the Southern sky one last time.

A click.

A clap of gun powder and steel.

Oblivion finally, truly came.