“Foot on throat, bullet in the chamber. That’s how you gotta live your life, son,” dad would say as he squinted through the dirt smeared windshield of this rattling old GMC pick up truck taking me to school. The wipers blades were ancient ribbons that scraped across the glass only ever by accident two maybe three times a year. The only time we had a clear view of the road was after a good heavy rain. “You gotta know when to pull the trigger and put somebody, and yourself of course, of their misery.” And he’d tap the mahogany steering wheel with the thick ring on the middle finger of his right hand. “Misery ain’t good for nobody but especially ain’t no good for yourself.” We traveled the uneven back roads. | image @michelerotaisdead