Farmer, by Sam

Ill tell you about Farmer. He was tall but grounded by an enormous gut and a swath of curly, matted fire that wrapped around the back of his head when he rode his motorcycle. I think he really wanted company so he told us he had moonshine. We followed him inside his mashed together trailer and into the junkroom/kitchen where he pulled a water jug not filled with water from the fridge and poured us a decadant styrofoam cupfull. First inhalation fumed up inside my nostrils drugging me before i could even taste it while he sat anxiously bobbing his nervous knees up and down asking how i liked it. I slid a purifying sip into my mouth and passed it along. All of a sudden he got up and pointed at the ceiling and wall across from me "i'll show ya the titties." The spots suddenly glowed on the walls: little fist sized reddish pairs of breast imprints like dots on wallpaper with curly, typical feminine signatures underneath. He pointed almost everyone of them out to us individually as if each one was special. I almost felt sorry for him for a moment then I realized that i was being stupid. Maybe one day I'll be as unashamed as Farmer.