Short Fiction
Michael Boatman

Thresher of Men

Black Edie was trying to restart the Benz. The old hermit kept turning the key and stomping on the gas pedal so hard she was bouncing on the driver’s seat. By way of a reply, the car she’d owned since Jesus was a toddler wheezed, smoked … and died. The look of dazed resignation on Black Edie’s face infuriated Fitzsimmons even more. 

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