I wish I knew. The character limits are annoying and complicate these kinds of posts / shares. I could be wrong, but I am hopeful that sharing the first (primary) post will direct others to the entire thread. But...I just don't know! 😅

Thank you for sharing it! 😀

Thank you, Siegrid! 😊

Thank you so much, my friend! I have been a bit absent from Bluesky lately (moving back to Georgia, looking for work). Good to see you again!

Great album...and also, a prized t-shirt in my wardrobe. (This image is on the front...the back is a quote: Free your mind and your ass will follow). 😊✌️

It was only then, in his agonized state, that Carlson realized no one was coming to help him...and in the most unexpected way, his oft repeated request was finally being honored.

THE END

(For Cormac McCarthy)

Carlson blinked up at the sky. Blood loss made the edges of the world go soft. The cicadas were quiet now.

He looked up one last time. Saw the dog. Saw what it was doing.

“Don't..." he whispered.

The dog persisted.

Carlson staggered backward, hands between his legs. Screaming now. High and thin. Legs gave way. He tumbled off the porch into the dust.

Above him, the dog sniffed. Moved to the spot where the slats were slick and red. Found the wet prize. Sniffed again. Tongue out. Started chewing.

A blur. A shriek. An unholy scream - Carlson’s voice, cracking like dead limbs. He rocketed upright. Chair went flying. But the damage was done.

A wet, tearing sound. Then a splat.

Blood sprayed the slats and pooled on the wood.

The cat leaned forward. Ears flat. Eyes locked. A predator’s patience.

The radio cackled. “...and they wanna replace you, good American folk. They wanna—”

“Eat. My. Balls,” Carlson said again, louder this time, spitting each word like buckshot into the air.

Then, without warning, the cat lunged.

It licked its lips.

Carlson scratched his gut. “Ain’t no man a man no more,” he said. “Just limp-wristed snowflakes. Goddamn leeches.”

The dog stood. Wobbled. Sat again.

Carlson scowled at it.

“You already ate Tuesday. You think this is goddamn welfare?”

Carlson shifted again. Groaned. The seat slats spaced wide. Warped with time. He didn’t feel it happen. Not at first.

Down below, the cat watched.

Pink flesh, like worms, slowly pushed between the cracks in the wood. Swollen. Pale. Delicate. Two boiled oysters, distended and enticing.

Killed everything it could. Mice. Squirrels. Once, a snake longer than a boot.

The dog saw it but didn't move. He knew the cat. Knew to leave it alone. Even hungry as he was.

The day grew hotter. Air like soup. The kind that sticks to your skin. Cicadas screamed in the trees like they were dying.

“Eat my balls!” he yelled at a jogger passing the yard. The jogger didn’t look. Most didn’t. Not anymore.

Under the chair, something shifted. Fur and eyes. The feral cat. Black with a torn ear. Born wrong, meaner for it. Had lived under that porch two summers now.

“Goddamn illegals,” Carlson muttered. “Stealin' everything but my goddamn oxygen.”

Talk radio squawked beside him. Tinny and loud. A man with a nasal voice talked about caravans. And cities turned to hell. And the glorious ache of freedom lost.

Carlson spat.

Dried out and split in places. It moaned when he shifted his skinny old ass in his ratty old boxer briefs.

The dog lay by the rail. Ribs like washboards. Tongue dry and curling. Eyes full of questions that never got answered. He whimpered once. Carlson didn’t look.

Truedat. I remember learning all the words to Paul Revere in high-school (even switching up the voices). Still have them in my head to this day! 😀