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A few months ago, I got this letter from a cousin that lives in East Tennessee near the NC border:
Memphis,

¿You remember Rufus? Goslow? Used to live at the mouth of the holler? Had a good-sized sheep herd over acrost Bold Valley on the ubac side of Lookdown Mountain?

Turned me in for "carnal knowledge of his pet ewe." Whatever carnal knowledge is; the law indicted me for bestiality. If my reputation had been better, I'd not even have bothered going to trial, because with a first offense, they still give you probation here.

But my good friend (best friend among those I owe money), a lawyer, told me I ought to fight the charge since he'd heard through the grapevine that they had set a trap to catch me based on eyewitness accounts from several folks living across Bold Creek from Rufus’s on the adret side of Knob Mountain. He said they could, might even probably would, give me two years, but it could, might even probably would, be less since the ewe didn't seem traumatized.

My head was spinning enough from trying to gauge my chances that I asked him for a lawyer recommendation. After some backing and forthing, he pulled a name out of his rolodex—seemed to me like a random selection since he was flipping fast till he stopped: "He's not much of a lawyer, but he is cheap, which seems to be your sole criterion. Still, I wouldn't recommend him to my worst enemy if he weren't the best I know of at selecting a jury."

Early on in the trial, I could see what my lawyer friend meant about his referral's lawyering. And I was increasingly anxious about the jury he picked. I was sitting at the end of the table closest to the jury box, and from the darts the jurors—all-male jury—was shooting at me with their eyes as the trial progressed, I was not all that reassured that my lawyer was any better at jury selection than he was at lawyering. Then the prosecution called what they said was an eyewitness. I thought, "Ohhh, shit. An eyewitness? At 2:30 in the morning?"

He went on and on about tackling, hog-tying, tying with a short rope to a chain link fence, etc., and etc. The jurors looked disgusted and let me know about it with their faces.

My lawyer had his head in his hands.

The juror in the first row, at the end, Juror No. 6 I think they called him, was not as hard-looking as the rest of them. When the so-called eyewitness finished up his testimony with, "...and then April (that was the ewe's name because she was born on April Fool's day) turned around and licked the defendant's manhood. Several times," I heard Juror No. 6 whisper to Juror No.5 on his right, "A good ewe'll do that... if she's perky."

The jury hung, 2-10.

I assumed Juror No. 6 was one of the 2.

 
Your cousin,

Natchez

A little dab'll do ya

On a shortcut through the alley, Joe encounters a raggedy man sitting on the pavement with his back against the wall, gripping a bottle about half full of amberish liquid in his right hand and a cocked revolver in his left hand, tears streaming down his face.
“Anything I can do for you, good buddy?”
“I'm scared. You muss hab a drink wid me.” He extended the bottle to Joe.
“Well, thanks for the offer, but I’ll pass.”
“Said muss hab a drink wid me.” By this time the man, who smelled strongly of urine, had stopped crying; and raised the gun so it was pointed more or less at Joe’s stomach.
Joe took the bottle and sniffed it. By this time the gun was wavering some, but was pointed more or less at his chest. He took a swig, and sprayed half of it over the man, “Oh gawd, stuff tastes more or less like horse piss to me.”
By this time the man’s tears were flowing freely again, “’S wat I thought, goo’ buddy. Now pass bottle back 'n hold duh gun on me.”

Memphis Trace

jardines

nar nar

castrato

rhinophymic

mirror

Trigger

ecdysis

Roomba