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Blood, Guns and Whores -- Chapter 37. A Light Mist Was Falling

Blood, Guns and Whores -- Chapter 37. A Light Mist Was Falling

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Published by W. Ross Ayers
Chapter 37 --- “Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel 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. It is filled with edgy stories and equally gripping illustrations, art and layouts. This is not your typical novel. This is an object of art.
Chapter 37 --- “Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel 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. It is filled with edgy stories and equally gripping illustrations, art and layouts. This is not your typical novel. This is an object of art.

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Published by: W. Ross Ayers on Jun 28, 2012
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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01/06/2013

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Blood, Guns and Whores

~An
All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog

Written and Illustrated by W.Ross Ayers

An SFWC Co-Publishing Studio Production © 2011 by LND, inc. All rights reserved

“Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel 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. It is filled with edgy stories and equally gripping illustrations, art and layouts. This is not your typical novel. This is an object of art.

W. Ross Ayers
Goto http://www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters and 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.

37. A Light Mist Was Falling When I got home from France I spent the summer with Jon at his dad’s house in Swanton. He had turned nineteen and inherited the house and all of his dad’s property. It was July, 1989. A month before coming home from France I had finally gotten a letter from Kerry. “Walt, I am over you. I do not want to see you or talk to you. I have been dating and having fun my senior year without you...” From France I flew into Detroit Metro Airport. Kerry’s family picked me up. Her mom, dad and little sister met me at the gate. Kerry was not there. They drove me to their house in Blissfield. Kerry wouldn’t talk to me. She wouldn’t even look at me. Two days later Jon picked me up in his white Jeep. We drove to his house with the top off. On the way we talked, listened to music and joked around enjoying the dry warm air of the Michigan summer. It was like we had never been apart. When we got to his house he showed me a crappy 1967 Catalina convertible he had bought from a guy in Blissfield for a hundred bucks. It drove and the top worked. We worked on it and drove it around during the summer. Jon had designed an aftermarket barrel for the Splatmaster paintball gun. He advertised it in the paintball magazines and sold them by mail order. It was the first aftermarket barrel for paintball.

Customers asked if he sold paintballs too, so he did. We would sit on the floor of one of the spare bedrooms in his house and count them out by the hundred, put them in baggies and pack them to be sent across the country. Before leaving for my year in France, I had stored my motorcycle at my buddy David’s in the barn behind his parents’ house. I had pulled the spark plugs, taken out the battery and drained the gas like the manual had told me to do. We had covered my motorcycle with a worn, white horse blanket that we had found lying on the floor Two weeks after moving to Jon’s we drove his Jeep with the top down to David’s house to get my motorcycle. We drove down the bumpy back roads across southeastern Michigan. The sun was overhead and the fields were starting to get green and full of life. My black motorcycle helmet rested on my lap. All the tools we thought we would need bounced on the floor of Jon’s Jeep. David met us in the driveway. We walked into the barn. Darkness surrounded me. I squinted as I waited for my eyes to adjust. I saw a dust-covered gray mound. I pulled the dusty gray cover off. There stood my red 1976 Honda CB550 exactly like I had left it one year before. We put everything back together piece by piece, talking, catching up and just enjoying each others’ company. I cranked the foot starter. The red Honda gurgled and sputtered kicking out puffs of black smoke and fire from the exhaust. I adjusted the carburetor. Then it purred in an idle. We let it run for twenty minutes to charge the battery. I thanked David, put on my black motorcycle helmet and rode my motorcycle to Jon’s house following him in his Jeep. Four weeks later I got a letter from Amelie. “When I am with my boyfriend all I think about is you. I passed the BAC, just barely. I want to hear from you and know how we can see each other again...” I never wrote her back. I didn’t know how. I often wonder where she is today. The rest of the summer Jon and I spent sending out orders, going to bars, drinking beer, smoking clove cigarettes and picking up chicks. At the end of the summer it was time for me to go to school again. I wanted to ride my motorcycle to Florida and onto the next part of my life. My parents offered to rent a truck and haul the motorcycle behind. They were afraid.

I said no. The day to leave came. I packed up my things and strapped them to the motorcycle. Jon stood next to me on the rocky driveway in front of his house. A light mist was falling. I sat on the fat black leather seat and pushed the electric starter. The engine roared. I put on my black motorcycle helmet. I didn’t want to leave. “See ya.” “Yeah, see ya later man. Have a good time.” “I will.” I slapped down the visor on my helmet, put the Honda in first gear and slowly pulled away. My head spun. The stones popped under my tires as I slowly drove down the windy driveway that curved through the woods. I turned onto the road. The mist turned into a heavy cold drizzle settling into my jeans, sending chilled dampness through my body.

“Blood, Guns and Whores – An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel 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. It is filled with edgy stories and equally gripping illustrations, art and layouts. This is not your typical novel. This is an object of art.

W. Ross Ayers
Goto http://www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters and 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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