In the morning sun smoldering mud to he skin, neighbor mongrel kids poke at he with a B.B. gun and ask if he’re a monster and if he was gonna plan to eat them, cause they have before and will kill he deader than a swamp monster should of be. When he try to open mouth, some thick spider yarn hold down the throat and let-get nothing but a sick wheeze-heee in. So the mongrels dose up a brass ball in the neck and he flip about thrashing, gurglin’ up a scream, ‘til they fright and take off bowlegged up gravel hill and out.
Half the day later he’ve made it home and have picked the brass out of neck and washed and now he woman spits on he and feeds he warm cornbread she made with her untiring created beautiful woman hands and woman soul while he try explain that he took tracks cause the short way. But he can’ do nothing but be sorry and say that the Friday night that did this to Saturday morning anyhow and he swear what happened was that Satan must of gotten hold’a he in that bottle passing ‘round that table, that’s what he say, say Friday must be the ease on work week he tell her.
But he woman spits while she gets the laundry on the line and he make mind to curse the neighbor mongrel kids for stealing out of the garage until he give up and end up cutting half the grass in the yard ‘til the gas run out. Then finally he put on Saturday face and ask her, he woman, to come out, and she says, No, she never. So he spit, he spit on her and take down the town road, down the long way, to place where music flops and town sprawls for him. He says.”