by Garrett Cook
I.
“Won’t you come home, Bill Bailey, won’t you come home?” she screamed the whole night long.
But that was not the name of the treacherous object. The name was raincoat slick, slippery as a womb, harder to grasp than grief. And it was off. The name moved onto the next town and found work as a roustabout, married a girl named Carol but it didn’t last. It was the type of name that had a girl in every port. It was no Messiah, so it couldn’t be nailed down.
II.
In a parking lot outside the bank, William Mack, sheriff of Treesbleed, ducked behind a car as an elephant with a James Dean pompadour opened fire with dual shotguns.
“The jig is up, Billy Joe,” said the sheriff, “I know exactly what you’ve done!”
The crowd gathered round clapped for this staccato three times. They were…
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