The Family Reunion

    It was a winter morning on the farm where Skinner lived. He could hear the wind whistling through the cracks of the thin glass windows and into the cabin, but though the wind was strong, the air was warm and the stove only required a single log. The wood crackled and popped as he stood and cleaned his mug in the basin sink, twisting the old rag.

    The cabin served as his home. It was far away from anyone who would try to bother him. Here he could sit out on the porch and gaze over the plowed fields in silence while contemplating his thoughts. It was quaint; an open high-ceilinged room contained everything except his own bedroom, which was just off the west wall, and only big enough for a bed and a small dresser to hold his clothes. The wooden logs of the cabin were old and cracked, marked and bruised by the elements over the years. The mortar holding them together was wearing away, leaving small empty pockets where beams of sunlight would shine in through the dust. The cathedral ceiling was in worse shape as winter snowfalls had rotted the planks. Pieces of the old insolation fell from the ceiling next to his feet, his eyes went up. A project for another day.

    A neglected envelope was sitting on the laminate countertop next to the sink, already opened but the papers still folded. He dried his hands and unfolded the stiff pages.

    “Mr. Frank Allen Skinner…” No one had called him mister in a long time. Men of the mines didn’t by formal names. Even a first name was a rare occurrence; only Ol’ Randy actually retained his, but 50 years among the coal and you became a respected mentor to all. No, Mister Frank was gone and only Skinner remained, that’s all he could ever want. He looked back at the smudged telegram letters, “We regret to inform you that your father, Theodore Franklin Skinner, has passed away and his estate has been settled by lawyer and friend, Roger Cunningham.

    Skinner’s father was a cruel man and one he wouldn’t soon miss. He had fled from home at the age of 12 after a particularly harsh beating. His father had found him with a bottle of whiskey in the basement, experimenting. Now, Theo wasn’t a religious man, and he wasn’t against having a good drink, but that had been, of course, HIS whiskey. His father brought that bottle down on his head in a drunken rage, and Skinner had been out the door forever, dripping as he ran with caramel coloured drops on his face, and red streams of blood staining his forehead. His mother was a coward, a sweet but traditional woman who wouldn’t dare stand up to his father. To hell with them both, I survived didn’t I?

    He found his footing in the home of a man he met who had worked in the mines nearly a hundred miles from his home town. Allan had noticed Skinner-the-homeless around his boys and took him in and taught him what he could about how a coal mine worked. The man was no father to him, however. Skinner stayed in a shelter outside and played with the man’s sons, but the man never considered him family, just someone he fed and pitied.

    Skinner read on, “With this letter, we have also sent the deed to his most recent estate in Maryland, and a transfer receipt to your account. A total of $273,052.12 was deposited last Wednesday by Mr. Cunningham after the will named you, Mr. Skinner’s only son, the sole beneficiary, and heir of…” He threw the letter aside and there was the deed. The gold trim of the page gleamed as he grinned. What are the odds that this is real?

    A visit from his uncle years ago had provided some light into the selling of the old Skinner family farm house he had grown up in. Oil they said it was, a whole lot of it. Theo sold the land, divorced Skinner’s mother and moved off to Maryland. Skinner had been skeptical of the whole tale, especially given the source. Jimmy can’t be counted on for shit.

    He crossed the room and stretched out on the couch with the deed in his hand, “All appropriate matters have been taken to inform your extended family already and they should be in contact in the coming days for any ceremony, funeral arrangements, or religious practices that may follow.” Shit. Oh shit, oh shit, no.

    He had rarely come in contact with his father’s side of the family; a bunch of drunken lunatics, he liked to think of them as. His father had two brothers and a sister, each one more terrible than the last. Uncle Jimmy was a con-man, and sold stakes in fictional companies to rural folks with the promise of riches after a rousing and coercive speech. Skipping town made him a lot of enemies in a lot of places, and he sought refuge more than a few times at the old farm house when Skinner was young. Just another drinker, Jimmy was.

    His other uncle, Conrad, he had met only once because of how far away he lived. Conrad was the biggest man he’d ever met: a banker, wealthy, moderately well-mannered but give him a few whiskeys and he was prone to fly into a rage. The only time Skinner had met his Aunt Linda, Conrad’s second wife, she had a poorly concealed bruise, and broken fucking leg.

    Then there was Aunt Marge. He had seen her the most and it was she who most closely resembled his father. Margaret Skinner: spiteful and unaccepting, an old world type of view. She ran the local general store where he grew up and often gave readings at the church. She was deeply religious but you’d never be able to guess the way she acted. Racist as one could come; Aunt Marge would get drunk and rant about the state of the nation and immigration problems.

    “The Chinese’ll be takin’ everything before long, dropping the bombs wasn’t goddamned good enough.”

    She had never married; probably not capable of love aside from that beast she calls a dog. Her Princess… They’d all no doubt be curious where all of his father’s oil money went and Skinner knew it had to remain a secret. There was no telling what they might do. What they don’t know can’t hurt em’, and sure as hell can’t hurt me. They’re dangerous, they have no shame, and they will stop at nothing.

    Skinner was dreading the occasion but instead of wallowing in the apprehension of reuniting with his “beloved” relatives he instead turned his eyes back to the deed. He grabbed a pen from the coffee table and scribbled a printed Frank A. Skinner on the line reserved for his name. He crossed the room and picked up a trash bag from a cupboard under the sink, folded up the deed and put it inside. Out the door he went, kneeling down by the running creek that babbled a ways outside the house. There was a massive fallen oak nearby that had fallen halfway into the crystal water; melting ice coated the leaves near the surface. This damn tree… just another pain in my ass. He removed one large rock, placed the bag with the deed and set the rock back. Safe and sound. Just until they’re gone and done with. I ain’t letting em’ strong arm me into giving them a fortune. He didn’t know what he’d be in for if they found out where the money had went but he didn’t intend to find out.

    The day of the funeral came around and he put on his only good shirt with a clip-on tie lent to him by the funeral home. It would be a quiet and quaint service with a priest, a prayer from his god awful aunt, and a closing song by a few of the local church singers. What after that though? There’s no way he would be left alone by his relatives and he had no doubt in his mind they were already preparing for the confrontation of a lifetime that would leave him defeated and broke.

    There was one option. He could hosting a reception at his cabin. The whole church was one big dumb ol’ “family” after all, what could his relatives accomplish among such a crowd? His aunt among the church and the priest? It was settled. He told Mr. Cunningham to notify the church that the whole congregation was invited.

    The cabin was packed with strangers all wishing their condolences and praising him for what a wonderful man he must have been. Spewing all their lies just for some free food and drink, that’s all they’re doing. He noticed his uncles from across the room and tried to avoid eye contact at all costs. Every time he so much as glanced over, their eyes would be staring right back. The reception was hard enough already, having to make small talk about what kind of man his dad was, a tedious flurry of lies and other bullshit. He knew who the man was and no one else should have to see him otherwise.

    “He was a traditional man, stern and consistent,” he lied. God forbid anyone who’d known him hear that, the laughter would drown the entire room. All was going as planned right up until his uncle’s approached him.

    “Shame he’s gone Skinny, your father was a great man, always lookin’ out for me. We were very close,” Jimmy said. He got the nick-name when he was a young boy, since then he hadn’t gained any more meat on his bones. Just a few more callouses on his hands.

    “When we were kids your father and I were inseparable. You look just like him, you know.” Conrad’s eyes were dark and shiny like a shark’s. Conrad seemed civil for the time being, but it worried him that Aunt Marge was nowhere to be found. Skinner excused himself quickly to go grab a drink and ease the tension. He knew what they were after, but sooner or later they would have to leave empty-handed. They didn’t know what he had, but if they had any suspicion, then his night was just beginning.

    He ducked out the back and slammed right into his Aunt Marge- leaning against the wall of the cabin with a bottle in her hand.

    “Let’s not kid around, Skin, you know why we’re here. No one had any real love for your father but we was family just like you.” Like hell you were… when was the last time you took a bottle to the head by the man?

    “There’s just no money Marge, whatever he had probably went to some mistress, I wish I could help you more.”

    “It’s curious, Skin, you invitin’ the whole town. Not one of ’em knew Theo and yet here they all are to pay their respects and here you are paying for their food and drink. An odd thing to happen for a son that runs off and isn’t heard from for years.” She looked deep into his soul and he knew that now was the time to be strong.

    He looked her right in the eye. “I haven’t heard anything about the money. You’d best ask Jimmy, no doubt he found a way, him and Con, to take all o’ dad’s money. I survived all on my own, I don’t need nor want anything he had.” Her gaze narrowed as she took a swig and on that note he turned leaving her alone in the snow. She’d never know how hard his heart was pounding; he was absolutely terrified of the woman and that beast of a dog wasn’t even with her.

    Inside he was greeted by the priest offering condolences when Jimmy put his arm around them both. “Yeah it’s a shame he’s gone and all, but fuck that son of a bitch, right Skinny? What’d he ever do for us?” He had started the drinking and clearly outpaced the rest of the guests. Skinner’s biggest fear wasn’t a drunken Jimmy, however. Looking across the room he noted Conrad sitting quietly with Linda, his eyes never leaving Skinner. His sleeves were rolled up and in his glass was a pale amber liquid. Fuck! Oh fuck. We need to wrap this thing up fast.

    “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead my son, especially one so newly buried. Have some respect,” the father said but Jimmy didn’t like that one bit.

    “Respect,” he turned to the attentive crowd, “Respect? That son of a bitch was a useless drunk known only for getting rich off his own dumb luck while we scrounged for any penny we could get. Then what does he do? Ups and leaves me with nothing. I was the only one that never abandoned the man, unlike this little shit stick,” Jimmy said gesturing to Skinner. 

    He could feel the eyes of the crowd on him, waiting for a response, waiting for a reaction. Theo was a sick man, but the crowd expected him to say something. All the eyes lingered yet the only eyes that bothered him were the eyes of his aunt who had just entered from the snowy outdoors. He’d been talking up his sorry-ass father all night, the least he could do was give the people a show. “Jimmy, you’re a drunk, and if you’re gonna be a drunk anywhere don’t let it be at my dad’s funeral, have some fuckin’ respect and get the hell out of here.” Too much? I suppose since I skipped on the whole eulogy thing I might as well. Jimmy fumed and came at him with fire in his eyes and a cocked fist. Conrad grabbed his brother and dragged him yelling to the other side of the cabin.

    Jimmy looked to his brother. “Where’s the money, Con? Where the fuck is it? You didn’t get anything did ya?” The volume of the chattering crowd was slowly returning to normal but Jimmy looked back at Skinner and yelled, “I’m coming for it!”

    “I think we oughta clear out, Father,” He told him. A slow nod came from the startled priest in agreement.

    The guests were all leaving and filtering out of the room that was his solitary cabin home. Conrad sat Jimmy down on the hood of his car; there was another whiskey in his hand, taller than the last glass. How many refills had he had? The question burned in his mind but his eyes then turned to Marge who passed him from behind, the last to leave.

    “Gettin’ your uncle all riled up like that – you should be a-fuckin’-shamed. In front of all those folks too. You fuckin’ dare try to tank our reputation with that church ever again and I’ll, I’ll wring your fuckin’ little…” She stopped, her face steaming red and teeth clenched.

    Skinner stared at the ground. “I never meant… what I’m tryin’ to say is… there’s no money Marge. There just isn’t, I been struggling with my bills too and just feeding myself is hard. These are lowly times, Marge, you have to understand.” Play that sympathy card, play it. He knew he was a good liar, had been since childhood. Aunt Marge didn’t look convinced but nonetheless left him to meet the uncles. I need to get them gone before things get outta hand. I gave them no reason to suspect I have it, once they`re gone, I`m in the clear.

    He turned 180 degrees and walked the last few feet in the snow to his front door. Once inside he bolted the lock and looked outside. His relatives didn’t notice his eyes behind the cloudy window. He watch as they looked together at the house, the door, surveying the property all while standing in front of that beater car of Jimmy’s. He watched as they talked, pointed, and discussed. What he would have given to hear what they were saying.

    They left shortly after and Skinner breathed a sigh of relief – he threw a steak on the counter-top to thaw as he watched the base of the sun touch the horizon. He’d survived the church, the stares, entertaining the locals, and finally, he had survived his terrible relatives. It had been a full day and feeling the winter night air and the warmth of his quilts, sleep came easy.

    The pounding came in the middle of the night. He guessed it was 2am, 3am but it could have been later. He rose from his bed and walked cautiously into the cabin area, his breath in clouds from the cold. Silhouettes moved against the frosted windows and another pound came followed by the sound of splintering wood. It’s gotta be Jimmy, he’s breaking in. The shadow appeared at the window and quickly, from the main cabin hall to the bedroom he went, diving through the threshold just as two eyes appeared against the icy glass. He could hear the frost being scraped away as the figure tried to get a better look inside.

    Skinner reached into a drawer of underwear and socks to bring out a .30-calibre lever-action rifle and a box of bullets. He loaded the gun silently and peered from his bedroom to the face at the window. There’s more than one. The face at the window remained while the grinding and splintering at the door continued. Skinner threw on blue denim overalls over his sleeping underclothes, then watched the doorknob turn slowly as a large hand appeared anchored on the opening door.

    Skinner fired through the door – no aim, no conscious thought about what happened. Shards of wood exploded from the small hole and a deep yell came from outside

    He had to move, had to escape. Skinner ran out the back door from his bedroom to find a 250-pound monster of a hound baring its teeth at him. PRINCESS. Attached to its leash was another 250-pound monster, his Aunt Marge. Giving him a sinister smile, she let go of the leash laughing maniacally. Skinner dashed back into the bedroom, slamming himself against the door to close the bolt as the beast hammered and snapped against the other side. He could hear two voices outside the front - one that whispered and one that yelled in pain. I hope that bullet kills one of ’em or I’m a dead man.

    Just as he thought it, Conrad burst through the door full tilt with hair a mess and flames of fury burning hot in his eyes. Skinner reloaded but he wasn’t fast enough – the steel toe of the biggest and fastest object he’d ever seen crushed the cartilage in his nose and sent him sprawling back. The boot came again, this time crushing his upper cheek. He felt blinded and went sprawling, the gun flew from his hands and just as he had regained enough bearings to scan the ground for the weapon, Conrad’s iron foot came down on the side of his head where it stayed. The pressure was immense, crushing and shifting. Any more force would send skull and teeth fragments shooting across the room. Conrad towered above looking down, his black eyes were hard and piercing.

    “You wanna shoot me? You wanna shoot me again Skin? You wanna see what happens when you take a shot at me? You obviously do…” he took both hands and squeezed the wound on his leg sending a jet of blood to Skinner’s face. Skinner thought he was a dead man before Conrad removed his foot. He closed his eyes as the pressure was relieved for only a second before an unexpected iron fist came crashing down on his temple from above. Skinner saw nothing but figureless flashings of white. The fist went up and back down three more times before he lost consciousness.

    He regained his senses and wakefulness in waves – the first time was when Jimmy was frantically tying him to a chair with Conrad nowhere to be seen. Jimmy struck him in the back of the head with what felt like a kitchen table but on his second wave of consciousness the glass on the floor told him it was a liquor bottle. He came around one more time to see Marge’s beast tied to the pipe in the wall. It barked wildly seeing him move. From his position with his back to the front door, he could see his relatives rifling through his home, tearing everything apart. Jimmy was removing the floorboards with a crowbar and Marge had taken to the cupboards checking every pot, pan. Looking back to his room he saw clothes everywhere but the rifle was gone.

    They were searching wildly, getting angrier with every empty nook and cranny they found. He watched as his house was trashed and destroyed before him before perking up.

    Skinner laughed through blood-stained teeth, “Ya’ll ain’t gonna find shit.” His voice was raspy and strained. The ropes holding him to the chair tugged at his throat making it hard to look down. His hands and feet were bound individually by knot after knot of rope.

    Conrad sat in pain balled up on the couch with a bottle of whiskey in hand, while Aunt Marge took notice of Skinner. “Don’t you fucking make me let my Princess go.” The dog turned towards his aunt then returned to baring her teeth and barking wildly. If this thing doesn’t eat me, Marge sure will.

    His Aunt was growing furious, pillaging the cupboards looking for a sign of anything, a hidden passage, a small compartment, a locked box, but there was nothing. He could tell she was growing more and more frustrated and began throwing the glasses and utensils, breaking what she could. She looked to him, shattering a pile of plates, then came at him with a ceramic mug, pointing it like a stern finger.

    “You’re gonna tell us where it is, or we’ll tear this shit shack apart finding it.” She hurled the mug at the ground by his feet and bent over grabbing a single shard of ceramic from the remains. She glanced at his forearm, then back to him and raised an eyebrow. She then stood, placing the sharp and jagged edge of the ceramic on top of his forearm and step by step she walked around and behind him dragging the serrated edge of the mug with her. The gash oozed as it extended, breaking the skin at his wrist and splitting right up to his elbow as she dug her makeshift blade deeper and deeper. He yelled out struggling against the ropes that bound him, but she continued.

    By the time it reached his shoulder he cried out, “Stop it! Stop it! Stop it!” From behind she threw her elbow under his chin and pressed so hard he thought he’d never breathe again. The head lock crushed his windpipe and he felt the blood beneath the skin of his face.

    She shook from the effort as she put her lips right to his ear, never letting up, whispering “Point.” He had no choice but to do something. They were never getting the papers on his watch. With Conrad’s banking skill there would be nothing he could do to stop them from draining the account if they got the information from the letter. No, he couldn’t let them have it. He would be unconscious in seconds at this rate so he raised a limp and trembling finger towards the ceiling. She released, slapping the back of his head. “Now that’s a good boy,” she said. The lowest part of the roof was fifteen feet up, and the highest part of the peak was about twenty. She flagged over Conrad and Jimmy and they all left cabin returning moments later with the double ladder.

    Might as well get someone to do the roof I suppose. A smile crept across his face until the pain swept it away. The blood from his cut had trickled down both sides of his arm forming a pool on the floor. He couldn’t just wait here doing nothing or he would bleed to death. Keeping a firm eye on the troupe now trying to steady the old wooden He eyes the ceramic shards on the ground and got an idea. He let out a pained holler and threw himself off to one side, the chair toppled over and he landed on the ceramic. Hitting the ground, he quickly clenched a larger piece of the mug in his teeth and drew it into his mouth. Marge ran over and propped him back up. His face was covered in fresh cuts and he looked pale from the blood loss. She slapped him across the face and gave him a look.

    “This ain’t a murder operation, so look here. Right in my fuckin’ eyes.” He feigned a disoriented gaze. “You stay upright, sane, and fuckin’ steady, and you might just be fine after all this. You might need a new shit shack, but you’ll live. You understand?” He gave a groggy nod as her gaze narrowed. “You will fucking speak when you answer me. You understand?”

    Panicked, he pressed his throat against the ropes and looked her right in the eye, “Yes ma’am I do,” he said, hoping the strain from the ropes covered the fact that the ceramic was under his tongue. She stared for a moment then returned to the ladder.

    She and Conrad held on ladder while Jimmy made his ascent with crowbar in hand. He hit the first plank of the ceiling and pried it off, the wood slamming into an already pained Conrad who was so drunk he barely noticed. Marge rummaged through the insolation while Jimmy continued on prying. They had no time to watch Skinner now, seeing the goal so close. All occupied.

    He spit the shard into his hands and sawed at the rope never looking away from his aunt and uncles. They were thin, and when all were cut he held them together look as if he was still bound while he cut the ropes of his feet. He went slow at first, but as the second board fell from the roof he sped up, sawing wildly. All the searching left no attention for him and as they rifled through section after section of the old insolation, he slipped out of the cabin’s front door into the cold moonlit night.

    He listened carefully as he crept down the snow covered hill to the barn, getting farther and farther away while only hearing the same snapping of the boards and disappointed grunting as they searched but Aunt Marge was getting sick of looking.

    “Skin! What fuckin’ part of this godda… Oh fucking shit boys.” He could hear them all making for the cabin door. Skinner was halfway down the hill to the old barn when he started sprinting. He ran and ran as the cabin door burst open behind him and the gun fired. The bullet hit him right in the calf but he ran and ran as he heard the distant click of the gun reloading. It was snowing lightly as he trudged through the sheets of frost-covered snow-banks; the wound was slowing him down as wild, quick pains shot up his leg. He heard the gun fire once more, the bullet whizzing over his shoulder and burying itself in the barn wall. Jimmy had been a marksman since childhood, though it still surprised him that Marge trusted him with the only gun.

    Skinner continued and looked back to find that Conrad was now sprinting behind him and gaining fast. He had to pick it up and fight through the pain and the cold. His underclothes were thin and the overalls now soaked up to his thigh and The blood from his massive cut was dripping sticky down his hand. No time to be comfortable, I will survive this. He ran through and slid the large barn door shut, clicking the large padlock into place just as Conrad slammed into the door sending dust about the room.

    The barn was worn and aged with broken wooden planks and holes all about that let the moonlight shine in. He had bought the cabin with the barn full but rarely went inside. There was one thing he knew was in here, however, his very first rifle. More bangs sounded as the yells from his Uncle echoed through the barn. It’s not gonna hold. He searched through a shelf of bolts and nails, screwdrivers and hammers when, looking up, he saw the box of bullets and began climbing. Reaching the top shelf, he stuffed his pockets with the ammunition just as the lock broke and Conrad entered.

    His uncle stood with the moonlight against his back, silhouetted against the dusty floor. His shadow loomed tall concealing a shaking Skinner atop the shelf. It didn’t take long for him to notice his nephew. Bloodied and scared he sat perched upon the shelf and like a wet bird he looked pathetic and vulnerable.

    “You’re not gonna like what happens if I have to get up there friend. Not at all.”

    Skinner didn’t want to hear it, “You done your damage, you’ve proved you’re not kiddin around. Just walk out and let me leave, you can search the house, and you’ll never see me again.” I just need them off my back. He knew they’d never actually find what they were looking for but if Conrad got him alone, Skinner would have to hand it over them with whatever limbs he didn’t crush to pulp. No, he needed time to return in secret and retrieve the documents.

    Conrad wasted no time. He went to the base of the shelf and shook with all his might trying to pull it down. Just as the shelf was about to topple, Skinner drew a breath and grabbing a hammer took a leap of faith. Going down with the toppling tools, he buried the back of the hammer in his giant uncle’s shoulder before hitting the ground. Conrad wailed in agony toppling to the ground and Skinner stomped a bare heel on his uncle’s bullet wound.  Jimmy was surely approaching; he had to act fast. One swift motion was all it took; he dislodged the hammer and smashed his uncle’s skull in, and then once more for good measure. The forehead crumpled like tissue paper and he thought he’d be sick right there standing over it all but out of the corner of his eye he noticed the gun.

    The rifle was under a rusted plow. He dove under and popped a bullet inside just as he heard movement at the barn door. Eyes shut, he turned and fired. Marge let out a blood curdling scream of terror and pain but her voice was much too far away. He opened his eyes just as the beast flopped on top of him snapping and writhing, then whimpering. Princess went limp. He gazed out the door to see the figure of Marge standing on the cabin porch back on the hill. He watched her fall to her knees sobbing with her face in her hands and he turned to the animal. It took all his effort to hurl the beast off.

    He was covered in blood head to toe. Bits and pieces of his uncle clung to his pajamas while princess’ remains left their own mark. He was sticky, wet, bloodied, beaten, shot, and cut, loosing blood every second. No time to worry about that now. A shadow moved by the barn door; it had to be Jimmy outside. He heard the labored breath of his uncle and crept towards the broken panel of the barn. Skinner wasn’t about to lose a gunfight for his life to his psychopath uncle. He left the barn and going around the back, Skinner started towards the stream to get the deed.

    As he doubled back in the shadows up the hill to the cabin, he could hear Jimmy bargaining. “We need to know, Skinny. Uncle Jimmy ain’t gonna hurt ya, the gun ain’t even with me, Margy’s got it up by the house. I just don’t wanna come in there and get shot. Where’s Con Skinny? You have to tell me that. You have to tell me he’s alright.” Skinner sprinted through the snow, keeping with the treeline, never looking away from Marge on the hill top by the cabin. She had her eyes fixed on the barn that Jimmy was leaned up against, the rifle in his hand.

    He was almost to the top by the stream but one patch of ice was all it took and he went down, face first, sending a cloud of snow into the air. Marge whipped around and drew a Magnum from the back of her skirt and fired, the bullet hit the snow five feet in front of him. There’s no way she’s gonna waste all her ammo trying this shit. She fired four more rounds yelling like mad, then sobbing and screaming as but the bullets never came close. If you can’t afford to fix the damn cataracts Marge, then don’t shoot the damn gun. Marge went out of view looking defeated as he continued around the cabin towards the stream. Coming to the water, he eyed the rock.

    Jimmy would be making his way up the hill and he would be looking for vengeance. Do I have time? Damnit, if I hadn’t killed him, he’d have killed me. He went for the rock and just as he exposed the plastic bag, a bullet hit the snow in front in front of his hand. Oh fuck. Jimmy was coming up the hill walking powerfully with the gun in both hands. His uncle aimed the gun and Skinner dove behind the downed oak tree just in time. Shit, thank god I didn’t move the tree. He prepared himself for a showdown and aimed the barrel of the rifle over the oak trunk, waiting.

    Jimmy came over the hill and Skinner saw eyes of stone. Jimmy’s cheeks shone with dried tears as he walked and aimed. Skinner had never been frightened by his uncle until seeing the cold emotionless eyes that now wanted him dead. Jimmy fired instantly. The bullet splintered the oak trunk and Skinner abandoned his aim to press himself against the ground. Another bullet hit the top of the trunk near his head. He needed a plan.

    This’ll either go really well or really fuckin’ wrong. Skinner slowly raised a shaking shoulder. Just one more, you’re going to have to take one more. Just one. Quick as a whip, Jimmy raised and fired again, the bullet slicing through skin and muscle, splintering the tip of the bone beneath. Skinner collapsed against the oak and let out yell. He shook and clenched his teeth as tears filled his eyes, but then he went still. Skinner listened, hearing the crunch of ice as jimmy got closer. He could feel the warm blood running down his back and the pain radiating down his spine but he remained still, never moving and finally letting his head loll to his shoulder. He waited and waited as the steps got closer, one at a time; he had to remain still.

    Just has Jimmy neared in to peer over the trunk, Skinner, with his back to his uncle, pulled the trigger of the rifle pointed over his mangled shoulder and shot Jimmy in the chest. The impact sent him staggering backwards and Skinner rose.  Jimmy’s gun went up to fire back but he lost his footing and his back leg came out from under him as he fell, slamming his head against the frosted snow. Skinner stood overtop his fallen uncle and slowly raised his gun, cringing from the effort.

    “Y… you never had to do Con like that man. You just didn’t. C’mon Skin, We’re family. You gonna hurt your family?” Jimmy’s eyes hardened and Skinner knew his last con was over. “You know what, you sick fuck, I bet you would. I bet you’d take me down right here defenseless in the snow. You know why? Cause you’re a good for nothing, piece of shit, son of a…” The bullet went right between the eyes and the barrel smoked.

    Skinner spat. “You’re no family of mine.” His voice was strained from the pain and his eyes were sore. They welled with tears as he looked down upon the body. “Y… You…you’re a Fuckin…” Tears fell down his face as a sob escaped. “You’re a Fucking asshole man,” He spat again, a hot tear rolling down his cheek and his teeth clenched, “You’re a fucking asshole.” He kicked his uncle’s corpse and a dribble of blood came out of the hole in his chest. He put a fist to his forehead as his face contorted with grief and despair. His head shaking with rage as the tears fell.

    He walked slowly toward the creek and removed the rock, taking the bag in his hand with the folded papers within. When he turned around, Skinner saw Marge standing in shock over the body of his dead uncle. He gazed at the ruined figure now standing in the snow. She was a fragment of the power she once represented to him. This trembling, broken woman was no longer his aunt. She was a crone, all her strength drained, and standing like baby in the wind. Her stringed hair blustered as the snow fell. She cupped her mouth as she stared at her brother on the ground, her forehead wrinkled and tears filling her eyes. Her hand fell from her face and she trembled, staring with bloodshot eyes.

    Skinner kept the rifle up and spoke. “Get on outta here now, you wretched bitch,” he snarled. “He left the money to me, he left the house to me!” The tears streamed down Skinner’s face and he wiped one away. “You thought you would just come in here, you pack of drunks, you sick fucks and try to take everything without expecting a fight? You thought you’d walk in, and ruin my life, destroy my home, and threaten my safety and then assumed you would just walk on out?” He spat and gave a raspy laugh. “Goddamnit, I’m a survivor. Now, you go on and get the fuck off my property right now.” She stared on, breathing heavy and fury in her eyes. He spoke again, “You ain’t got no business here, take your mutt’s corpse, take your brother’s corpses and just fuckin’ leave.”

    She raised the shaking revolver slow, never breaking eye contact and quick as a bullet Skinner fired a round in her kneecap. She buckled and fell to the ground. He leaned down, “Now that’s a good girl.” He took her gun and threw it into the creek. With his Rifle in hand he walked away.

    “Just shoot me…” she sobbed from the ground. “Don’t you dare just walk away. You fuckin’ shoot me! End me now or I’ll find you, I’ll hunt you, I’ll make it my life’s goal to kill you! Do you hear me? You son of a bitch, you piece of shit fuck…”

    Her cries drowned out as he walked, battered and wounded, dripping blood every step, into the cabin. He grabbed shoes, shirt, pants, his coat, one quilt, his hunting knife, a damp rag, and a bottle of whiskey. Packing it all up, he walked right out the door, wiping the blood from his face while looking towards the horizon. The cresting sun shone off the snow and reflected diamond light off the crystal dunes. The pale pastels of the sunrise sprawled upwards and for a second he almost forgot the events of the night.

    â€‹Skinner walked over to Jimmy’s beat up sedan on the gravel and got in, throwing his pack into the back seat. He opened the garbage bag and unfolded the pages eying the gold trim of the deed. He flipped then to the black ink numbers on the bank statement then turned the key. The car roared to life and a grin crept across his face. I got a full tank of gas and a new ride, the night could have been worse. All I need to do is get to one bank, after all.