(no subject)
Greybeard was always on the lookout for high adventure. Big scores. He found himself with a new crew. A pack of miscreants and locals, who spent their time running in wider and wider circles. It was farming country on the Eastern Shore of Virginia. A strange Creole land of sea and dirt.
He was shot once. A twenty two. Bet you thought they didn’t have twenty twos. Yep. Some farmer didn’t like him and his crew running on his land. The farmer, when confronted by Greybeard’s boss, said he feared for his sheep. “I’m afraid for my goats, dem dawgs, dey gettin’ in,” the farmer told the boss.
Greybeard didn’t sit in on the conversation, but he was pretty sure his boss man instilled some boom and some fear in the farmer.
He liked his new kids, Greybeard did. A little redhead and a blue eyed blonde. Little ones. His old lady, Spunky, mostly hung out at the house with the kids, and the boss lady.
Greybeard was a roaming pirate.
He and his gang, running, didn’t know what to make of a convoy of conversion vans running up the big road.
When the brown Ram hit him, his black fur ripped open and splayed lush red. Greybeard had guts. Only a little bit of the guts ended up on the Ram. Mostly, the guts, and bits of skull and old Greybeard’s mind ended up on the shoulder.