volume one IN THE D U D L E Y C L A R K - Ohio Vine Tours

The stuff Old Guy’s offering isn’t like tequila, or anything
serious. It’s just what people put into coffee. In fact, he thinks it’s
probably safe enough to give to kids. His Mom and Da used to
give his little bro brandy to shut him up. Brandy is probably like
this stuff. Not hard liquor, like vodka or scotch.
His eyes drift to the flash of white that is the handle of the old
guy’s gun.
It seems unlikely that Old Guy will shoot Roy now, but these
days life is awash with terrible twists and unexpected turns,
jealous rages, snapped nerves, unexpected audits, and so on.
Anything is possible, these days.
He obliges Old Guy and allows him to color his milk beige.
Roy reasons that the seemingly bottomless glass of milk will
serve to dilute the poison he’s poured in.
So it’s unlikely he’ll turn into a werewolf.
When Old Guy seems satisfied with the color of Roy’s milk,
he re-caps the bottle and sets it on the floor beside his stick-shift
chair.
Once again, he lifts his glass in salute.
“Down th’ hatch.”
Roy’s smile is a lie. Brave as he can be, he swallows.
Old Guy smacks his lips.
“Yum. I gotta long-assed sweet tooth. You?”
Roy is unable to reply. He’s too busy experiencing something
new.
Maybe he has a long-assed sweet tooth, too—because this is
some really good shit.
Really, really good.
Shit.
The insistence of his bladder flags; his jack hammer knees
take a breather; his free-floating fear unclenches its fist.
Roy is starting to feel pretty good.
The tricky part will be to keep his private stuff inside.
Table lamps that emit a soft effulgence effulge even further,
ever softer; darkness hugs them, cushions them, provides them
with rest, renders the room into a warm, timeless refuge, a safe
and snug retreat.
ROY ROGERS IN THE 21ST CENTURY 1 1