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Writer's pictureBrennan

God's Country

usually when you see jokers that look like that, they done something to get like that,

he posits, wisdom outstripping appearances as he leans against the bumper of his ‘84

Scottsdale

his lips, to which crystal methamphetamine is admittedly no stranger, deftly wield a lit

Marlboro Red as a fencer wields an épée

while he variously talks, spits, smokes, and nurses a lukewarm Miller Lite


the tragic object of his pseudotautological assessment, awash in a stew of pathos and

cigarette smoke, approaches a man as he returns from taking a shower and stocking up

on Stacker 2 and food he can microwave in his truck

Miranda, but I can be whoever you want me to be, Daddy,

she oozes, delicately stubbing out her half-smoked cigarette before frugally returning it to

the pack, which she tucks into the concave space between the tops of her asscheeks

and the waistband of her cutoffs

finding her lost LSU shirt the furthest thing from her mind

her just-too-small bra filling in for the Geaux Tigers tee admirably

lilac and lacy where it had not yet begun to deteriorate from wear

gray-brown gossamer where it had


the trucker who asked her name chuckles to himself, indicates a lack of interest, and

disappears into the sleeper cab of his Kenworth for an uneventful night of

Netflix,

porn,

and Easy Mac

shit, Mandy, maybe it just ain’t your night


the so-called parking lot more a field of busted concrete than ordered space

muddy and desperate like many of its occupants

smelling of gasoline, Arby’s, and disappointment


a family man pumps gas into his boring life, trying to hide the fact that he can’t look away

from Miranda-or-whoever-she-is from his wife and two-and-a-half kids

fucking freeloading ingrates,

he mutters to himself but not really

describing his beloved children with all the warmth of someone who has named the tumor

that will ultimately kill him


our ersatz philosopher spits the spent butt into a rain puddle and stomps the empty beer

can flat before flipping it into the truck bed, where it joins scores of its kith and kin, and

climbs inside

he removes the can of Copenhagen from his back pocket, where it has worn a ring into his

jeans, and packs it with a few snaps of the wrist

Gimme Three Steps on the radio as the engine revs, a grin spreads across his face

Lord it don’t get no better than this

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