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Noir Fiction
Johnny Bullet
Ever Been To Texas Boy
Chapter 5 Page 8
Johnny Bullet
Ever Been To Texas Boy
Chapter 5 Page 8
As I passed before his front gate, he shouted rheumatically, his voice a toothless cackle, "Hey there, boy! Come up the walk a ways, I got somethin' I want to show you! Hey there, I got somethin' I want to say!"
I stopped, and cast my glance back over my shoulder, to be certain he was addressing me. As there was no one else, I understood he must mean me. Glancing this way and that along the avenue for traffic that would never come, I crossed the street and stopped at the gate.
"What do you have to show me?"
"Come on through the gate, boy! That dog don't bite! Look at 'im, for Chris' sake! That dog couldn't chase a snail across a windowpane! That dog couldn't hunt up a good place to sleep! But come on through the gate! I got somethin' I want to show you! I got somethin' I want to say!" He waved me forth with a heavily scarred and thickly veined arm, which I thought must have been most powerful in its day.
Reaching around to the back of the gate, I found its little latch and pushed it open with the inevitable squeal of a rusting spring. It snapped shut at my back with a sharp report, and the old, mangy dog at the foot of the steps lifted its torpid head at last.
I stopped, and cast my glance back over my shoulder, to be certain he was addressing me. As there was no one else, I understood he must mean me. Glancing this way and that along the avenue for traffic that would never come, I crossed the street and stopped at the gate.
"What do you have to show me?"
"Come on through the gate, boy! That dog don't bite! Look at 'im, for Chris' sake! That dog couldn't chase a snail across a windowpane! That dog couldn't hunt up a good place to sleep! But come on through the gate! I got somethin' I want to show you! I got somethin' I want to say!" He waved me forth with a heavily scarred and thickly veined arm, which I thought must have been most powerful in its day.
Reaching around to the back of the gate, I found its little latch and pushed it open with the inevitable squeal of a rusting spring. It snapped shut at my back with a sharp report, and the old, mangy dog at the foot of the steps lifted its torpid head at last.
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