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Bent and Venting
Adrian Ludens
I know they’re out there, skulkin’ around in the woods. Hidin’. Waitin’.
They’re federal agents lookin’ to bring me in. Granddaddy would’ve called ‘em ‘Revenuer Men’.
They won’t take me without a fight; that’s for damn sure. Every gun I own is cocked and loaded.
My daddy taught me about runnin’ moonshine. Granddaddy taught him. I ain’t about to throw away three generations of hard work ‘cause of somebody’s idea of what is and what ain’t right.
So here we set, hunkered down, waitin’ on the feds. They’re out there. I know it.
The reason I know is ‘cause of the roof on the barn. One of the ventilatin’ pipes above where I got the still set up is bent off-kilter. Gotta be from one of them government men crawlin’ around up there, spyin’ on my operation. Like I wouldn’t notice the damage he done.
I pried the cast iron door off the wood stove and rigged it with rope. I tied it around Ruth’s chest and told her to wear it for protection. I know all about them sharpshooters. Climbin’ trees and shootin’ folks who are just workin’ to make ends meet. Sonsabitches!
Sorry. Being cooped up’s got me pretty bent, and I’m venting.
Ruth says we’re fixin’ to run out of food soon, but we ain’t leavin’ the house. We’re gonna sit tight. Stay buttoned up. Let the feds make the first move.
I know they’re out there, skulkin’ around in the woods. Hidin’. Waitin’.
So am I.
