I received this e-mail from Thorn earlier this week…… From: Thornton Sully firstname.lastname@example.org To: Gary Clark email@example.com Sent: Tuesday, May 21, 2013 8:58 AM Subject:Granny Apparently granny does not drink. I have yet to see her story. — Thornton Sully Editor-in-Chief, A Word With You Press Director, Kid Expression Shortly after …
I received this e-mail from Thorn earlier this week……
From: Thornton Sully firstname.lastname@example.org
To: Gary Clark email@example.com
Sent: Tuesday, May 21, 2013 8:58 AM Subject:Granny
Apparently granny does not drink. I have yet to see her story.
So this is what I told him in reply to his e-mail;
I’m not sure where a Granny story would fit into the entries here. Everybody’s talking about all these highbrow philosophers and writers and high-powered thinkers. Hell, down here in White Rock, Texas we don’t know nuthin’ bout those guys. We were raised on Mark Twain and Superman Comic books and Dick and Jane and the women’s underwear pages of the Sears catalog.
But being the good sport and deranged writer that I am, and at your suggestion, I’m gonna throw a Granny story into the fray and see who comes up with the wishbone.
So, here for your decision to either post or not to post, is a story that if you’re tough enough to post it, I’m tough enough to take the blame for it.
Since he’s not here to speak for himself, I’ll just go ahead and post the story as my entry into this contest. And, if you like this kind of Redneck humor, come by my blog, www.GrandmaSparkyandMe.com and read more of the stories.
That being said, here, with no apologies to the literary genius of all you who have entered the contest, is my story,
Cheater’s Bar, three blocks past Skid Row. It was one of those nights. You know what I’m talkin’ about. You’ve been there.
I was leanin’ against the bar, sharin’ a few Flaming Fuzzy Fuckers with my wingman, Carmac McCarthy. “This ain’t No Country for Old Men nor A Child of God,” he said.
I harked and spat into the sawdust. “Yeah, you’re prob’ly right,” I said. I threw another double shot down and wiped my mouth and three day beard against Penelope Cruz’ bare shoulder. She grinned and slid her hand down real slow from my chest all the way to my banduki.
“Careful. I’m full loaded,” I said.
She rubbed her thumb across the trigger.
“Hold on there, girlie,” I said. “Don’t wanna go off half—,”
All of a sudden, a gust of hot wind, the Devil’s breath, reeking of hellfire and brimstone, blew the swinging gates open and standing there, wearing her nightgown and fuzzy slippers, and carrying my 12 gauge, was Granny. That evil Rooster, wearing a Colonel Sander’s costume, perched on her shoulder.
“This has gotta be a bad dream,” I said to myself. “I’ll just have to wing it.”
Then the gates swung back, hitting her in the knee, and squeezing her left breast between ‘em. It was kinda like one of those Chinese handcuff things. The harder she pulled, the tighter they squeezed. She set up a mournful howl.
The rooster crowed.
I woke up screaming.