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Blood, Guns and Whores -- Chapter "33" Rolling Rock

Blood, Guns and Whores -- Chapter "33" Rolling Rock

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Published by W. Ross Ayers
Chapter "33" --- “Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel TM made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco.

W. Ross Ayers

Goto www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters, check out how this is cool and different. Or just buy the book to get the full rich experience of the illustrations, artwork, and story in the way it was meant to be experienced.
Chapter "33" --- “Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel TM made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco.

W. Ross Ayers

Goto www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters, check out how this is cool and different. Or just buy the book to get the full rich experience of the illustrations, artwork, and story in the way it was meant to be experienced.

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Published by: W. Ross Ayers on Jul 21, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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07/21/2011

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Blood,
 
Gunsand Whores
 
~
An All American Tale
 
of a Boy and His Dog 
Writtenand Illustrated by W.Ross Ayers
 An SFWC Co-Publishing Studio Production © 2011 by LND, inc. All rights reserved 
 
, is a coffee table novel
TM
madeof micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco.W. Ross Ayers
Goto http://www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters, check out how this is cool and different. Or just buy the book to get the full rich experience of the illustrations, artwork, and story in the way it was meant to beexperienced.
 33. Rolling Rock
Mike was five foot seven. He was stocky and had a scraggly black and gray beard. Every day he wore apatched and stained pair of Carhartt overalls. His 1968 Ford pickup truck was filled with rust and painted with
gray primer. He had rebuilt the bed with scraps of 2x4’s and plywood.
The other guys made fun of him and his truck behind his back. He was quiet and gentle in a strong way. He
didn’t say much. I
liked him.Mike and I drove back to the office in his wooden truck. The sky was open, gray and bright. We had spent theday repairing a conveyor belt in the dark bottom of a ship.The winter snow was starting to melt. We were no longer freezing on top of ships.
“I gotta stop at the store.”
 
We pulled into the cracked asphalt-covered parking lot of a 7-11.Mike opened his gray rusty door and walked into the store.I stayed in the truck.After five minutes he walked back out with with a large brown paper bag in his hand.He sat sat down in the seat behind the steering wheel, reached into the large brown paper bag, pulled out agreen bottle of Rolling Rock beer. He opened it with the bottle opener bolted to the dashboard. The cap fellon the floor. He took a swig then lit a cigarette and started the truck.
“You want one?”
 
“No, I’m fine.”
 
We drove down Starr Avenue towards the office.

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