Sometimes in life you’re given choices. You can listen to your mother and her husband pound away at the Tempurpedic in the next room, or you can hop out the window and leave this crap town behind.

Choose.

So you jump. You take the pick-up and the new revolver and you blaze away, free as a bird. Or at least that’s what you think.

You pull to the side of the road and you lean on the rust red pick-up, desert sun blazing as it sinks into its bloodbath sky. You smoke your Marlboros and you drink your beer, because you think you’re a man.

Then you see it. That dirty coyote, sniffing out the desert for a fight. It’s mangy and scrappy and it reminds you too much of yourself. It sees you and knows you, knows that you’re the same. The dirty beast comes stalking towards you, teeth bared, ready to see who’s the better man.

You can either hop back into the truck and run like the little boy you are or grab the revolver and blow the grin off his face.

Choose.

So you shoot.

Congratulations, Gunner, you’re a man.