Robbed

Someone stole my whiskey. Ain’t sure who and I ain’t sure when, but when I lifted the lid on the rain barrel this morning I could have cried. Wasn’t a single bottle spared; they even took the cheap stuff I keep for visitors.

I think Miss April had something to do with it. There, I’ve said it. It’s a terrible thing to say, I know, and it hurts like hell to say it, but she’s the only one that knew about my secret stash and that’s the mournful truth. Some friend, huh? Am I aggrieved? Damn right I am. Course I’m trying not to be hateful. If she ain’t hit hard times then maybe she needed it in a hurry, for medicinal reasons, for a fevered army or something. There’s gotta be a good reason. Leastways there’d better be, or I’ll kick her thieving ass from here to Tennessee.