Down and heather

Remember Guy? The drop-down dagger? Rinsed his shirts in lemon water? Him. Being sent up was like hanging off a grocery store peg board, stickered and sealed. Guy had the drop on everyone. Every time. Like a protractor in a pool hall. So when he was fired, and forfeited his place at the halfway house, he knew every angle. First degree murder. A stab wound in every freckle of the tow-head cook, and the sous chef made into julianne fries. The scene seemed staged by a fifth dimensional imp on rubbery legs and a mind like the Fourth of July. They picked Guy up that morning. He waved to the rubberneckers and baked up a bread pan of bull for the tv gals. I was about to graduate when his final appeal ran out. It happened the week I was born is why it stuck in me all these saddle-stitched years.