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Serves Him Right!

I broke a toe when I slammed my left foot into the 55-gallon oil drum. Watching it tumble down the steep hill toward the harbor eased the pain in my foot and the burning anger in my chest.

I drew a puff on my pipe, scratched the five o'clock shadow on my face, and pushed my fedora forward. I smirked as I cocked my head toward the clangs, bangs, and thumps as the drum slammed against rocks and decomposed logs, careening down to the water.

It was 2:00 a.m. in Port Angeles, Washington. Guiding my new, 1931 Ford Model A Coupe with care, I'd found a logging road that led to a section of the harbor where no one lived, worked, nor moored any sea-going vessels. A place as dead and lifeless as a cold body in a coffin.

My face relaxed as the container splashed into the murky tide water with a heavy sound and sank. I stared at the ripples until they disappeared. My anger vanished with them.

"Serves him right," I muttered to myself as I pushed back my fedora and relit my pipe. I turned to limp back to my car, parked where the darkness of the forest mirrored the darkness of my heart.

"John, I found God." That's what my brother Luke told me when he got out of prison. He started butting into my moonshine business. He threatened to report my operations to the local Revenuers.

Well, he's with God, now.

Story by:

Jenise Cook

5 November 2017