The Drought by Patricia Fulton, Extended Imagery Page B

worn the day before, he rolled out of bed, placed his foot in a box of half eaten pizza and slid the rest of the way to the floor. Swearing as he went, “Shit! Fuck! Shit”
    The horn blared again.
    He got up, wiped a piece of peperoni off the bottom of his foot and looked out the window. A baby blue pick-up truck was sitting in the driveway behind his own much smaller, crapier truck. That baby blue wouldn’t fly if it weren’t for the Micky-Thompson thirty-three’s and the six inch suspension lift that went with it. It was Rod Sawyer.
    Grinning behind the windshield, Rodney blasted the horn again.
    Murphy flipped him the bird and dropped the curtain.
    Junction was like a furnace with temperatures over 100 and Rod Sawyer wanted to go hunting. In Murphy’s opinion getting up early and the required sobriety were two good reasons to avoid the sport. He pulled his boots on with shaking hands, rummaged through a pile of dirty laundry and found his hunting vest.
    The house was a wreck. There was a large hole in one of the walls, furniture was turned over and beer cans littered the floor. Suzy was sitting at the small kitchen table, eating a bowl of cereal, watching the little black and white TV propped on the counter. She glanced over briefly when her dad walked in and said, “You look like shit,” then stuffed another bite of cereal in her mouth.
    With little conviction and less authority, he mumbled, “Watch your mouth.” Seeing an unopened can of Lone Star beer on the counter he walked past her, popped the can open and drained the warm fluid.
    Suzy, long past the years of disgust but still struggling with disbelief, shook her head. “Rodney’s outside.”
    “The fuck you say.” Murph raised his dark eyebrows feighning disbelief. “Is that who’s been blaring on his horn all morning?”
    With a roll of her eyes, Suzy stiffened her shoulders and Murphy knew he was dismissed. Teenagers, they were so sensitive. He opened a cabinet and pulled out a jar of Tylenol. He popped three in his mouth, grabbed a half empty bottle of beer and washed them down. Wincing at the taste, he looked at the bottle wondering breifly who in the hell had brought Corona to his party. Murphy preferred his beer canned and he definitly didn’t buy yuppy, shit beer. Just the same, he finished the bottle and tossed the empty into the trash.
    Unable to keep her silence, Suzy taunted. “I think there’s a few more unfinished cans over here.”
    Ignoring her jab he asked. “Have you seen my hunting cap?”
    Undeterred, she gestured to the cans littering the counter space and the table. “I could gather them all together, I bet we could get at least one full glass.”
    He grabbed a black hat with the San Antonio Spurs logo stitched across the front and headed for the front of the house. “I’m going hunting.”
    Suzy yelled at his back. “Come on DAD, how about one more for the road!”
    The front door closed.
    The thick heat surprised him. It was like an oven. He took a couple of shallow breaths and felt the onset of a hell of a bender coming his way. Walking to the other side of his truck he retrieved a pistol out of the glove box, rummaged around and found a dozen loose shells. He put the shells in the pocket of his vest and grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels from under the seat.
    Rodney was leaning back in his seat with the bill of his fluorescent orange cap resting over his eyes. Murphy thumped the hood of the truck and startled him. He wished he had a fucking air-horn to really deliver a dose of justice. Climbing into the cab he caught sight of Rodney’s crossbow lying in the bed of the truck. He raised a doubtful eyebrow. Javelina were fast and mean and didn’t tend to hang out long enough to be picked off by a bow.
    Hunting season didn’t officially open in Kimble County until the first week of November, but Rodney had gotten it up his ass he needed to shoot something. The two men had a friend who owned a beautiful stretch of land up