The Gunslinger understood the plight. For some, the war never ended, and it was much more than slavery, it was about identity, and millionaires from the upper crust taking their cut of the human existence. He knew the world was a dog faced, unforgiving motherfuck, but he’d found his way. With so many men’s inclination to the easy way out, the world of the western expansion was chaos. He hated The Red Seven with all of his guts, but he understood what kind of demons they were. Only a man who’d been through hell could understand those who still wish to bathe in its flames long after eternity.
The Gunslinger arrived in New Orleans
The most notorious killer of the entire city lay in front of him, the Mississippi river. Many men fell in after an evening with the bottle, or a whore with a blade. When the dense weight of a body splashed into that water, the undertow would always wrap its arms around, and low, low below they’d go. The quiet waters glistened in the sunlight, as the water crashed in miniscule waves at the shoreline. The seabirds cawed as they dove for the scraps of waste fishermen threw back into the water after cleaning their fish. The pelicans sat bored, enjoying the sun and commotion going on around.
Two men had begun arguing as they unloaded barrels of shrimp, as one of the barrels fell to its side, the argument had turned into a commotion. The beady eyed, spiny crustaceans tried to crawl away, and back into the safer waters, even though the murk of the river wasn’t exactly friendly waters. The two men continued to shout at one another, and knives were pulled. The silent dance had begun as they circled one another, goading. With beckoned dares, the larger of the two men didn’t trust his instincts as the rest of the dock stopped working and took in the free show.
Panic was over taking as he knew he’d crossed the line, and no longer was this a small fight, it was real. Sweat beaded at the crown of his scalp, the larger man’s toes gripped the inside of his boots on the ready to spring into action. The smaller of the two had feral eyes, and his mouth was agape, showing off the horrid, stained, umber dental work that hung inside his jaw. His knuckles pressed ivory against the handle of his blade. His vapid, dumb looking face wanted death, and no more belittling from his larger companion would be heard, ever again. With a great leap, his blade slid into the stomach of the larger man. His wrist moved across the belly, spilling the contents of the man’s GI tract. The whites of the large man’s eyes grew massive as his guts were now pouring on his boot tops. The smaller man wiped the blood on his pant leg. He began cleaning up the spilled shrimp. The large man lay in a pool, and continued to bleed. His cries grew less and less. The crowd who’d watched the commotion went back to their daily business, paying no less mind to a child selling shoe shines, or newspapers. After the man had died, he was picked clean of valuables, and his body pushed over into the river, where which it sank.
I’m proud as fuck of my man Shooter Jennings on Leno tonight.
If nepotism counted for anything on the grand scale in music, he’d be on top of the world, but in today’s world, it’s about the moment, and the marketability. That mumbo jumbo don’t jive ‘round here.
Shooter is a fighter. He’s always trying to create something new, something different, something country, something dark, and something classic. He could have been a CMT idol, but he didn’t want that, and still doesn’t. That’s balls. He could be selling Corona’s to dipshits in cowboy hats on the beach with sand up his ass, but he’s not. He’s doing exactly what HE wants to do, and that’s a powerful thing. Shooter is ultra talented, and always looking to do something innovative. He’s nice as can be, and very polite. He’s a great dude, and overall, I’m extremely proud to call him a friend.
Go buy all of his everything, and help build a scene. Discover the underground, and discover a slew of artists that aren’t some hokey “She’s Country” garbage. There is a universe below your feet, and in this universe, Shooter is a pillar of the community. We have tattoos, we wear all black, we listen to the Misfits, Johnny Cash, and Slayer. We drink a lot of beer, and ride bikes with motors or fat tires in the hood. We fight trends, and we read books. We think, and we are not what you think we are. Support the XXX - The Moonrunners and support REAL country music.
Some days, like today, I feel like someone has taken a shit in my brain. This story is hard to write.
I have not one, but TWO, fart apps on my phone.