Last Night In Twisted River

Nor had he learned to choose more wisely, as Filomena had recommended; perhaps he’d purposely decided against choosing to be with anyone who so much as hinted at the promise of permanence. And the writer knew he was too old to still hold his aunt accountable for introducing him to sex when he was too young. Whatever reluctance Da

IT WAS THE BAD-DOG PART of Da

Da

“Mind your dog!” Da

“Fuck you! Run somewhere else!” the hippie carpenter had yelled back.

Now here was the unchained dog again, snapping at the ru

“Leave my dog alone, you son of a bitch!” the hippie carpenter yelled. He was walking down his driveway between the rows of wrecked vehicles.

“Mind your dog,” was all Da

“Fuck you. Run somewhere else,” the guy said. He was walking back up his driveway; he didn’t care if his dogs bit Da

When Da

“I told him to mind his dog,” Jimmy had answered.

Da

“Why don’t we kill just one of them?” Armando suggested. “Then maybe the hippie carpenter will get the idea.”

“That seems harsh,” Da

Armando DeSimone was more than what amounted to Da

Da

Armando didn’t keep score. When attacked, he attacked back-the first time. Da

The only way that would happen, the writer should have known, was if Rooster bit the hippie carpenter. Yet Rooster wasn’t wired that way; Rooster never bit people.

“Just one dog, Armando-you promise,” his wife, Mary, said, when they were all in the car with Rooster, driving back to Da

“Tell Rooster-make him promise,” Armando said; he’d been a boxer, back when colleges and universities had boxing teams. Armando drove, with Da

“Because justice is so rare, it’s such a delight,” Mary had remarked. (Now, Da

In the end, Da