6 November 2007 | Vol. 7, No. 3

Luck of the Draw

by BRANDY WHITLOCK

You're ripped and he's a little lit and on a whim you've crossed two states to get hitched. Right away it's clear the justice of the peace doesn't like the story here, and before he'll tie the knot, he says, he's got to ask about your breeding. What people you're from. What they might have to say about all this. You're a mutt, and your man, he's full-blooded, but Judge says, in his fine and full experience, decent folk tend to stick to their own kind. You wouldn't stud a bay roan Appaloosa with a grade American Cream, he says, and expect he'd throw a foal worth his fee, any more than you'd yoke an ox and a mule and expect they'd pull together. Even in your condition, he says, and dumb and hapless, there's no need to jump the gun. You're laughing in your sleeve, thinking Judge is ready to send you packing, but your man, smirking, is flashing his cash. He gets a key ring on your finger, pecks your cheek, and pulls out the flask. He takes a slow swig, passes it over, but before you can turn your wrist up he's dragging you out the door. And the whole way home you're grinning like criminals, howling like absolute animals.