Britches dusted with topsoil, shotgun barrels dusted with unburned gunpowder, and faces dusted with frowns. These ole boys were clearly in no mood to be friendly.
“He’s a worthless GMOkie,” sneered the bearded one with the double-barreled twelve gauge. “Turn that rig around and you git on home, boy. We don’t need any more hobos in this here county.”
The little one just spat. The axe handle he was tapping against his palm spoke volumes.
Wretchedly, I turned and departed.
Attempting the gauntlet, the owner of the next vehicle was torn apart by the twenty-first century California coyote pack.
100 words. Inspired by this week’s Micro Bookends prompt.
ParkInkSpot 