“Cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do you no good. Time to meet your maker.”
He was talkin’ to me. I wasn’t crying. Maybe I looked like I was about to start. I’d never prayed so he was wrong there. Things were not looking good. I was staring down the barrel of his Colt 45 and I could tell he was just itchin’ to shoot me. Can’t blame him really. He’d been away for so long on that cattle muster. And he comes home to his little cabin in the woods to find me.
His best friend.
In his house.
In his bedroom.
In his bed.
In his wife. Who was now squeezed up against the back of the bed clutching the sheet up to her chin covering her naked body.
He clicked the hammer back, straightened his arm.
“Tell me before you die” he whispered. “Where’s my favourite Palomino?”
For the Flash Fiction Forever Challenge using the phrase Cryin’ won’t help you, prayin’ won’t do you no good.