He opened the box. He then after he had already opened the box removed the towel from the box and took the gun out of the towel in the box. It was a lever-action straight grip Henry .22. He then knew what he had to do. It all came clear to him, as clear as the sky can tend to be during certain parts of the year in which clouds are infrequent. Just then, old Mrs. Bonnie Russel came galloping in. He gasped. She tweeted. She knew all along.
"I...I..." he stammered.
"You what?" she demanded, farting rapidly like a broken motor.
"Yes?" she was growing impatient. New text message. Bridget. wuts up when r u guys coming down? do u guys need drinks im about 2 go on a liqour run
Finally, he spoke. His tone was pleading and confessional. "I didn't know what I was doing." he shook as he spoke. "I thought I could handle it. I didn't know it was you. I didn't mean to kill the boy. I thought I was more handsome. I didn't know she could hear me. I thought it was a urinary tract infection. I didn't see the holes in the wall. I thought it was all a game. I didn't understand what she was saying. I thought the mule was already dead. I couldn't smell the sulfur. I didn't realize we were being watched. I thought my horses could handle it. I didn't realize it was Diet. I thought she'd ordered a small. I didn't know how it was supposed to look. I thought it was a possum. I wrongly considered the vicissitudes inherent to the tenuous subject of alterity to be extraneous, when in actuality the mobility of "otherness," as explored through the work of Spivak (2003) and Kristeva (1999), is central to the question of mimesis in poststructuralist accounts of subjectivity and difference. I didn't realize it was loaded. I thought he'd ordered a pickle and some coon bark. I didn't realize it was pure copper. I thought I'd gone down the other street. I..."
His pathetic begs for mercy were interrupted by a Skype call. It was the Sheriff, on his high horse, Bucky. "Quiet down there!" The sheriff's eyes shot out at different directions like Marty Feldman's, and his voice had the tone quality of a choking duck. "You're a bad man and you've committed a crime at a point before this story had begun. Many other events have transpired that have led the populous of this small 19th century American Western town to consider you a common scoundrel. I sentence you to death by Having A Player Piano Dropped On Yr Head."
To Be Continued