There's something cold about a muggy evening soaked in the smoky twanged scent of whiskey.  Most likely because there's a reason for each descending nip into tired apathy that never fails to grip a man in that space between sober and drunk.  Too sober to smile; too drunk to frown.

    On this particular July evening, the tired moans of Mississippi blues rattle out of a nearby bar like an unassuming snake that gently curls around the windpipe of the soul.  When it's ready, chokes you good, and dammit if you ain't blue. 

    Suppose you're wonderin' what brings your tired and tipsy narrator to the rotted out wood of this porch.  I guess I'll tell ya.  Ain't got nothin' but time now.  Well, here it is.

     The South was falling further into depravity and disrepair those days.  I guess it can't be blamed.  Suppose, the Good Lord had his reasons for sendin' the dust.  Heard some pretty damn gruesome stories from those travellers. 

    As it happened, my wife and I were doin' just fine raisin' our cattle.  Nothin' too fancy.  Mostly enough to eat.  Guess the dust just got tuckered out 'fore it made it our way.  Plenty of green left on our fields.

    Next part of the story may be the mad ramble of a drunk on a stoop or it may be the wildest truth you ever heard.  Guess I'll leave that up to you.  One question before I get goin' on here: You believe in God?