"I was, I was, no, no, um, no," Roy sputtered, as Rico's face came into clearer view, illuminated like the moon's, dark on one side. "You scared me, Rico!"

The farm hand moved forward, his large frame nearly as tall as the ladders he climbed up and down all day. On this night Rico wore a wet, grimy tee shirt turban-like around his head and a pair of of jeans. His long hair was tied tightly in a pony tail, held in place with two sappy pieces of tree twine. And in the waist band of his pants was the handle of a very long knife.

"Didn't know your Pops can really bang the old buckets, eh?" Rico said, boredly exhaling the smoke of his cigarette out of his nose before spitting a large ball of snot sideways into an overgrowth of honeysucke. "Ya, back in the day when me and your old man was in a band together, he actually thought he was gonna be famous, like some fancy cat on the cover of Rollin-fuckin-Stones, or some crazy shit like that. I would tell him to lay off the fucking acid, but he loved that shit. He ain't the same guy I knew."

Roy went to speak but his dry mouth made him nearly gag as he tried to salivate.

"Ya, now he's just fucked up. Some of us got high, and some us found God, my man. Let me ask you something, Roy, do you believe in Jesus?" -- JV