He was big . . . the biggest of the litter . . . big enough to wrestle bears, and he did, two, maybe more; but he killed many. When he woke up in that black inky night he couldn’t see, thought he was blind, and had a massive hangover from his Daddy’s Cherry Jump moonshine. A buzzard had died in his mouth and with it came rotten dog breath. A headache like someone had hit him with a pole axe made him feel like he was dead, dead as four-o’clock. And did he smell! Wow! His torn bib overalls were soaked in sour mash. Other than not knowing where he was, he still thought he was alright, and that too was a problem. Was there any hope or any salvation? Luckily, he had been weather hardened by war. He stood up and he tired to walk, but ran into something. It knocked him down. When he fell, he heard something rattle. It was a trace chain attached to a leather dog collar around his neck. But in the inky dark he couldn’t see his hand in front of him. He got up again and found the trace chain wrapped around a tree, and locked. Shocked, he screamed out, “Goddamn! I’m chained to a tree,” then screamed louder, “They have chained me to a tree like a wild cur dog!” Now mad as hornet with his stinger busted, he felt around and found something else about the tree. This time he screamed even louder, “Son of a bitch! It’s my goddamn tree! Who in the hell would chain me to my own tree?” He sat back down against the family tree stunned, and then realized; “It’s got to be my . . . family. Chained me like a goddamn cur dog to a tree. But which one of them would have the nerve to do this . . . to ME?” Then he realized it could be only one person. He stood up and screamed, “Mama! Then he fell down again, pounded the ground, cried like his heart tore out. He got up off the ground, went into a wild-man’s rage then fainted with exhaustion. Then he got sick, tried to walk, but threw up all over himself. And the chain snatched him back and down into his vomit; it was all over him like those bugs. He pounded the ground with his fist, wondering how in the world he had gotten here and where he was. Again and again, he got up. Each time he tried to walk in another direction, but the chain snatched him off his feet and back down on the ground and into his rotten vomit. It didn’t matter what direction he walked. Finally exhausted, he couldn’t get back on his feet. Still he kept asking himself, “Where in the hell am I, and who in the hell put this collar on me?” All night he shouted and wallowed in his vomit like an itchy, old, fat hog taking a bath in new mud. He heard no one come in the dark, silent, black night. Thank God! His vomit smell finally ran the goddamn bugs off his body and away.

AUTHOR REVIEWS

"Another one of the best of the best; has an eye for writing more good novels. Just Great! What can a person do when they read a story like this one? You have the knack for telling stories from the Blue Ridge Mountains. Just keep it up and I’ll keep looking for another book."
-Hyway94, Everywhere, USA-

"I like the back-story (flash back) that leads in. Very well written and has great flow about something I know nothing about."
- Isle of Travey, Auckland 1172 New Zealand-

"Another highly written book, written in your unique style, and I loved the antics in this one. You are so gifted to have such a unique spelling ability."
-rivki1111, USA-

"This is the very best chapter (#54) of your novel. Of course, I am so glad the villain got his come up-ins. Dredd reminded me of one of my ex-husbands. You’ve got a great book here."
-Oatmeal (Camille Whitman), USA-

"You have a talent for realistic character, engaging dialogs