Click cover to enlarge it
Harlan swilled down the last of his beer, then crumpled the aluminum can like a wad of newspaper. A few drops of the piss-colored liquid splashed onto the floor and Harlan wiped them up with the holey gray sock on his foot while he tossed the crushed Coors can into the trash container across the room.
“Don’t mean to dirty up your home none, Cal.”
“Aw, shit,” Cal said, showing front teeth that looked moth-eaten, “my place is your place any time you’re in town. How many times I have to tell that? Now, put up your feet and have another beer. You and the young ‘uns spend the night. A lot of good drinking bars in this town — and a couple of ’em even got strippers.”
“Don’t say?” Harlan said, returning the wink Cal had given him. “Don’t say?” He popped the tab off another can of Coors. “Well, Cal, you’re forgetting what it’s like being a farmer. A man can’t be sitting around all day and night swigging beer when a man’s got farm to run.” He raised his eyebrows intentionally, smiling to himself when he saw Cal wince, “No Sir, not when a man’s got a working farm to run. Strippers, eh?”
Cal’s face brightened as Harlan brought the topic back to strippers. “Take off every stitch, Harlan. You never seen nothing like it. Professional gals from the big city. Tits like you ain’t never seen.”
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.