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nauseating shrine of self-idolatry. 
    On the walls hung the mounted heads of a twelve-point buck and an American Bison slaughtered on local game preserves by the great white hunter.  On bookshelves beside the television was an alphabetized library of DVD and VHS pornography with classics like Big Poles in Small Holes ; The Texas Asshole Massacre and Yank My Doodle, it’s a Dandy .  And finally, tucked into every possible nook and cranny of that private fiefdom, was Ted’s prized collection of bowling trophies.  Because as talented as the bastard was at screwing the underage, he was an even better bowler.
    Of all those gleaming testaments to the man’s ten-pin prowess, his clear-cut favorite was a gold plated bowling pin engraved with the words; FIRST PLACE, HOLT COUNTY TEN-PIN CHAMPIONSHIP that stood erect and proud at the center of the fireplace mantle.  That trophy was Ted’s Crown Jewel--the award he treasured above all others-- and it was Angeline’s job to keep it polished to a fine spit shine.  Before he’d lost the greater part of his manhood, I’d sometimes imagine Stumpy all alone in that room with his precious golden pin, Budweiser in one hand and dick in the other, stroking his massive ego.
    But I hadn’t come to admire the man’s collection of bowling trophies.  I was there to check out the antique firearms he kept inside a mahogany gun cabinet set against the back wall.  The only thing that twisted sonofabitch ever gave my sister--besides a swollen sphincter--was his knowledge of that old weaponry.  In fact, until my coming out party on Angeline’s sweet sixteenth, Ted had been giving her instruction on firing those six-shooters down at the range in Atkinson-- handy know-how I inherited by proxy.   
    In the years before he’d vanished, Father was often fond of preaching, use the right tool for the right job.   And so, heeding J.D. Gottschalk’s sage advice, I opened the cabinet to peruse that collection of antique iron, searching for just the right tool. 
    Inside were several rifles propped upright on their stocks, the most valuable being a 1949 Winchester Model 21-- a double barrel shotgun that Grandpa Gottschalk had bartered for ten dollars and a mule.  That handsome twelve-gauge could do serious damage, but for the crusade I was about to embark upon, a more discreet firearm was required-- one that could pop a pervie up-close and personal.
    For that I had to go to the drawer beneath the rifles which contained Stepfather’s display of antique revolvers.  Right away I dismissed the triple lock “New Century”.  I liked that it fired the .44 Special, which Ted insisted was the greatest cartridge ever made, but the six-shooter had a six and a half inch barrel which made it a bitch to conceal.  Likewise, I was a huge fan of the Rugers, but the .44 Blackhawk was a beast with a recoil that could knock your ass into next week, and the Single-Six required cocking each time the trigger was pulled. 
    My gaze skipped past several other potential candidates before settling on a cute little number with a short snout.  I lifted the snub nose .38 and felt the weight of it in my hand.  The Smith & Wesson Model 10 was impractical for long-distance shooting but it hardly mattered-- I’d be operating at close quarters.  Besides, that two-inch barrel made it a cinch to hide. 
    So this was it; the right tool for the right job.  With the six shot, double-action Smith & Wesson .38 at my side, I was armed and ready to smite the wicked of this world-- starting with the first name on Angeline’s hit list; the baby rapist himself, Harland Lee Wade.  Taking the revolver and a box of .38 cartridges with me, I headed out to the barn where the truck was parked. 
    Not unlike handling those firearms, operating that shitbox Ford came second-nature to me thanks to Angeline.  I maneuvered it up the long, mud-rutted driveway and past the farm’s two-acre irrigation pond, its rusted pump now useless for