In the settling dust Jared found himself face to face with the monster of Castle Court, a king of vice with a jester’s cackle. He’d leapt so quickly from his dated Impala, a makeshift buldozer now resting half through the living room wall, that he’d left the motor running. Worn tires whined feably on wet grass outside.

“Boy,” thundered Harris Boyle, wearing only a shabby bathrobe in the doorway to the kitchen, “You’s gonna’ pay fer that, an’ yer kin’s gonna’ pay, and yer kin’s kins gonna pay too. They’ll pay like you ain’t never…”

“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!” Jared screamed as he produced the purloined revolver from the back of his trousers, an aged single action Colt only a modicum of rust.

“Wellllll, you ain’t as ig’nant as I thought. Good fer you, if’n you only had the stones.”

Jared shook with rage and his voice cracked embarassingly, “Stones?! Stones?! Is that what you call it? Is that what you called it when…”

“You cain’t even say it, boy. Now, go on home to mammy…an’ pray.”