When they fuck me in the back seat, my legs dangle over to the front seat. But if we put the top down, there’s enough hog-wild, holy-roller corncracker to flag a freight train. I declare to fucking Jesus. Those two make my little asshole pout.

We jack the cars in Atlanta. Getting out of Dodge is rule #1.

We disappear down to Glades County where we have an arrangement with the owner of the Glades Babes Motel. Room 10. Room 10 is our room. Always the same room. Forty acres and a snake. Everglades rat snakes are red. They will kill you dead as a fish fry.

Three of us. Bunk Laws and Corn Bread will just fuck the shit out of me in room 10 for about two weeks. We require two cases of Jack Daniels and a lot of Georgia weed.

Rebuilt 1968 Dodge Charger convertible. Tuxedo black. Completely rebuilt 440 and rebuilt 727 AT transmission. An animal. We keep it parked in the garage out in the back by the Glades Babes Titty Bar and Lap Dance neon sign in case you got lost wandering around out there in the glades and you might need a lap dance.

I have never needed a lap dance in my life, but I did have one once on a dare at some bar on a highway ran around Lake Okeechobee. That was my first and last lap dance. People talk tall tales about what they did here and there and they always claim they were drinking mash and talking trash. Dismal dirt dog poor and jailbirds from Ft. Lauderdale. I am told (I deny it) I had another lap dance at the Boca Chica Bar and Grill. Lots of bar but no grill.

I do not rightly have lap dances. But you can fuck me if you want, and I will probably like it. We pay off the Glades County sheriff to leave us alone – and to let us know if the FBI is getting too clase – in coke. Last year, it was fish or cut bait, and we stayed at the Mango Marina with the Key West whores for a whole week until the FBI got tired of waiting around Home Depot for three individuals who had never been in a Home Depot in their criminal lives, and you have to wonder about the snitches the FBI uses or the other way around. The snitches will use the FBI because the snitches (everyone knows this) are more crooked than a barrel of fish hooks.

We knew in our criminal bones that we had fished out Atlanta. It was dry as dust. We had to give up stealing cars there, and then selling those cars to Atlanta chop shops. That would mean we would be on our way to N’Yawlins. We would wear our Sunday-Go-To-Meeting-Clothes, our masks, and we would take our BK-43 sawed-offed twelve guages. Overall the sawed-off is more suited to close quarters and kissyface-to-kissyface situations, while the BK-43 has a longer barrel and tighter pellet spread therefore being suited to short-to-mid-range cans of worms situations. The shotgun can shoot one or both rounds at the same time, making it extremely deadly in close-quarters, but its damage potential is heavily curbed by its frequent need for reloads. But it looks badass. The sawed-off BK-43 is best reserved for use against boot legger single enemies when you can rail off the cops with two rounds very quickly and then take cover to reload.

The three of us do not amount to a bucket of cat spit. Georgia weed. Trailor Trash Meth. Mexican brown. Columbian coke. Old Milwaukee. And two cases of jack. Sometimes the whores brought over pizza. Drunk as fiddler’s bitch. Bunk Laws has a big dick. We’d take off for the Glades Walmark parking lot where would suck Bunk Laws’ cock, and watch the sunset sink into a dark and bloody ground.