The old shuffler is a real old devil. Wuxia may have taught you about which direction the wind blows the flame, but did it teach you about what’s in that shed at the edge of the property? Dry ash bind and teeth as soft as skin, bigger and uglier than Leatherface but with the disposition of the Big Red Dog, he stands with his back turned for infinity, the sparks of friction, his hard lumbering work, the chopping block. That’s why I don’t venture near the shed much anymore. That old dog is liable to lick my face off and wear it. That big red tongue making barbacoa of my frills. There’s a wolf back there behind those soft teeth, the animal. It’s all smiles and put your head in the crocodile until one day your “pet” decides to change it up—the show that is—and snap-jaw down. Then your head’s clean off. This is why even his goats have jumped the fence, gone to the other side. There’s only one drop of water left in the creek. One blade of grass. One rock falling down the mountain. Near bone dry. So you see why the goats weren’t going to stick around and find out what the old dog was capable of. Problem is, over here, on the other side, there’s nowhere else for them to go either. Over here, on the other side of the fence, he’ll be here soon enough, I’m sure of it. He’ll take his sweet time getting here though. The old shuffler, that is.
More about: Mot
