Hung, Drawn and Quartered

Four in the fucking morning and Stevie Roy scratches the itch. Loads the shells into the 12 gauge, wipes the sweat off his brow and sets the alarm clock.

Wakes up and ambles over piles of clothes and old beer cans. Finds his hat and the keys to the truck.

Prays the radio still works, and The Lord abides.

75 miles per hour and rising towards Nashville. The band’s blaring like they’re falling down a well and hitting the walls, and Stevie joins them. Figures if a man’s going to Hell it only seems right he bring company.

He believed something akin to parking occurred, when he saw the Starbucks. Tradition dictated the term was crashing.

Falling out of the truck, he stumbled and careened into the coffee shop. Levels the gun at the barista’s head. Doesn’t wince. Pow.

Sections of the skull hold for moments as she grips what’s left of her face, hoping to keep it together. Her fingers feel around what’s left of her jaw as the nerve endings fire up.

“Open relationship, my ass.” he stammers.

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