Rambo

Rambo wiped his greasy chin. His night was not wet - but whetted his ideas. As he stood, he licked his lips and tasted the salty butter, and he rolled his eyes toward the heavens and spoke, "Ah, you've not seen more glory than this, Rambo, ole boy. How'd ya ever get here anyway? Not by your mam's teet. She never did offer ya much. And your pa was a good-fer-nuthin sonuvabitch is all he was." He lowered his head just enough to take in the ground as he lumbered across the grass. His dark tresses swayed over his forehead in time with his steps. If he could make it from the farmhouse to the barn, he could sleep the night away like a baby in the hay. But white likker had his brain by its tail, and seemed to be playing pendulum with him. If he hadn't had cornbread with his beans, he'd have lost his dinner. Yet, this was his own little show, and the circular motion of the ground was just a backdrop for the main story. It was important, too. Watching Flossie's bottom shake her skirt while she worked at mixing the ingredients for dinner. Watching right over that pompous ass farmer's ear as he spoke on and on about a subject Rambo couldn't recall. That dinner - well, boy. He passed on the offer of collards and onions, but drank the milk and ate the pintos and cornbread. Then after, the farmer needed to show off his stock of mash likker - unofficially stilled on the property, unbeknownst to the law. That was when Rambo realized his advantage. If a farmer's going to tell you about a still on his land, why can't you comfort his wife for him while he's out in the field all day? If you can feed and muck the animals quickly, you can pretty much get a dig in or two between some soft legs in a cozy bed with fresh-air-dried cotton sheets. She'd looked at him once or twice at dinner, oh yes. "Here's the hay," he said, and fell into it like a dream already. His sleep was black.