Pistol Fanny's Hank & Delilah Read Free

turn colors. I felt like I should stab him in the neck.
    I threw my bag down, took the ticket out of my pocket, and tacked it to the wall of papers we had found that we thought were cool. There was an old cigarette pack and a drawing of a naked woman with stars as her fleshy boobies. I walked over to the stereo in the corner, took Dylan’s mixtape out, and put in REO Speedwagon.
    Jesse plopped down in the big beanbag chair in the corner and started taking out the snacks Mrs. Presley had packed. He gave us each a Moon Pie and a RC Cola. The drink was hot and the pie was smashed and melting, but it was good anyways.
    Curly took the blowup guitar from the shelf lined with baseballs and poker cards, strumming it like it was real. He started to sing along to the music, slashing his head back and forth, closing his eyes tight. Heaven Almighty, a real cootie bug. While Jesse started to count his suga’ pills, afraid he would run out, I started loading the camera up with film.
    “Did you hear that?” Curly paused his solo, thumb ready to begin again once all was clear.
    I shook my head and kept concentrating on what I was doing, trying not to get sticky goo from the Moon Pie on the film.
    “Turn that lower.” He motioned to the radio.
    Jesse leaned over and lowered the volume. I stopped fiddling with the camera, listening harder. It sounded like men’s voices, but we were all alone. Then I heard a scrambling noise and knew who it was right away. It was Wild Thang’s mascot, a squirrel we named Fat Squirrel. He was the fattest squirrel we had ever seen. He loved Moon Pies too. He was real friendly. He would take the food straight from your hands, and because he was too fat to run away, he waddled away.
    Sure enough, a few minutes later, he came scurrying into the only window in the place. You could see out through the spaces in the thick branches, but you couldn’t see in.
    Curly laughed and handed him a piece of his pie. Fat Squirrel sat in the window, his small hand-like paws holding his treat, just a-nipping at the graham cracker. It sounded like he was making a clicking sound with his teeth as his beady little eyes darted back and forth, watching us. His eyes were the only things quick about him.
    I finished putting the roll of film in the camera, and as Jesse and Curly started discussing how disgusting Mrs. Beastie’s underarm sweat was during English, I heard more voices. I quieted them down as I moved to the window and peeped out through one of the gaps.
    Judge Booty, the man Jesse’s dad didn’t trust, was standing about ten tall trees away from us. His back was to us, but there was another man in front of him and they were arguing. The other man was young, steadily smoking a cigarette. He was puffing so hard and so fast, the cherry seemed to continuously glow.
    I could hear their voices rising. Booty kept throwing his hands up in the air, but he mostly pointed toward where we were. He was so mad, the next time he pointed, I actually stuck my back to the wall because I felt like he was pointing at me.
    Jesse and Curly hovered around the window with me, watching.
    “What do you think they’re arguing about?” Curly whispered.
    I shook my head. “I don’t know. But be quiet, because whatever it is, it’s heated.”
    Jesse’s face went pale. He looked more than a tad sick.
    “Don’t worry.” I patted his shoulder. “If you want to go and hide in the closet, we’ll come and get you after they leave.”
    We had found a secret closet that was built into the hut. It was the same color as the walls, and the line to the door matched the creases around the room. Like Wild Thang, we had found it horsing around one day. Dylan had slammed me into the wall and it popped open. It was small, only able to hold two of us, but it was fun to dare Jesse to go in there because he always passed out from the fright of being in a dark place.
    Jesse shook his head, clutching his Presley pack to his chest.
    “Toots, come see