The Blues Run Red
“Whiskey and wimmen’ just about done wreck my life…” — John Lee Hooker
The following is based on a true story.
Cocked. Locked. Firing pin striking primer ejected round.
Three thunderclaps from the feral, metallic, death machine struck his long, ebony body in the buttock, kidney, and spleen as he thrusted like a bull on fire into the busty redhead on the big brass bed.
Hell hath no fury… as three more rounds struck the wall, emptying the second-hand Saturday night special she held in her hands quivering with an otherworldly rage.
“You cheatin’ bastard!” she shrieked, beating him with the butt of the .22.
“Who is this little whore?”, as she drug him by the ear out the door of the fleabag, pay-by-the-hour motel somewhere in the painted desert.
The bluesman mustered every cell and iota of his diminishing strength to slap the fresh rounds his wife was reloading into the .22 as the long, lean redhead flew to the bathroom like a hellbound succubus, slamming the rickety wooden door behind her.
The rounds seemed to hit the concrete floor under him in slow motion, clinking like his wife’s baroque jewelry, just one of the things he hated about that controlling hell hound.
