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11:37 PM, October 22, 2008 – Bells, Tennessee
The creaking of the time-weathered ’88 Ford Bronco competed against the frogs to rend the night with noise, but Brandy Stoakes could hear nothing aside from her own and Daniel’s heavy breathing. If only for a few minutes, Brandy’s attention stayed on the man under her. She preferred this to her usual state of mind, which normally led her to sulk over the bags under her eyes, the outlines of her ribs visible on her torso, the follicles of hair she found every morning on her pillow. Being in the heat of the moment with a man bested the experience of rekindling her relationship with other people’s prescriptions, if nothing else. Daniel could make her feel pretty when she needed it, and she could make him feel better after a bad day. The arrangement served the two of them well.

“What did the nigger boy do when you pointed the gun at him?” Brandy panted as she ran her hands over his shoulders. Daniel had already thrown his shirt into the back seat with his glasses. Brandy could fool herself into thinking the flab on his arms and chest looked like muscle in the low light.

“Ran off to his momma or summin’, what do I care?” Daniel blew the question off, his interest more directed at removing Brandy’s shirt. He fumbled to find the bottom of the fabric in his near blindness, though,and the stench of cheap beer on his breath encouraged Brandy to take care of the job for him.

“You should’a blasted his nigger ass, I say,” Brandy shot off casually, “The fewer of them around here, the better.”

Daniel halted his hands over her breasts and shot her as disapproving a look as his stiff face and beady eyes could muster. “Bran, you know I gots better things to do than shootin’ some little negro child and getting’ myself arrested. Me and Paul, you see, we has plans.”

“The fuck you talkin’ 'bout Dan? You don’t know how to plan a birthday party. And you was just tellin’ me you was gon’ shoot the windas outta that church not three minutes ago!” It was at this point that she stopped grinding her bony rear into his lap.

“We decided we had better things we could do! Paul -- he has ideas. He knows how we can send so many coons runnin’ back to their place. Shootin’ a nigger church or a nigger boy is less than our potential!” Daniel stared out of the windshield, the gears in his mind visibly groaning into motion. “Paul and me, we gon’ change this country. We’re gon’ set things right and take it back from the animals.”

Brandy stared at Daniel for a beat, then laughed, “Whatever you say, dumbass. You can think you is a big man all you like, but we both know you’s just good for a screw. Take off your pants.” She added that last command quickly. Daniel brought the gears back to a rest and undid his fly.

The hood of the car, silently wearing the numbers fourteen and eighty-eight, reflected moonlight into the woods.
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