by Rodrigo Girão

It was a hot sunday morning on that distant farm somewhere at the Bible Belt. While his father was away, praying for a hate-filled god, he found relief from world's on the touch of a secret lover. His hands ran through the softness her long gold-colored fur. They wildly desired each other's body, and nothing could ever stop them. Or so he thought.

Suddenly the door was opened and a face of hate appeared in front of the lovers' naked bodies. Dad was back. Their passionate embrace was painfully interrupted by the impact of a dirty foot on his face. He fell, nose bleeding and his brow hitting the ground.

His lady tried to help him, barking and biting with all her strength and passion, but she was also attacked with a rage that not many can stand: the wild rage of a zealot.

Then it was his time to try to help her, but he was still dizzy with the impact on his head. He was knocked down again and kicked continously on chest, belly, head and between his legs.

Surrounded by his own blood, we woke up with the sound of a thunder, and he immediately knew his soul had been destroyed. A few minutes later the hateful face was at his door again. Better this way, the face said, than going to hell.

He stood there for hours before regaining forces to do what he was supposed to. On a clumsy walk he walked to the firearm room. He could never understand how many can appreciate the use of those devices of death agains harmless creatures, while finding pleasure with a dear friend was a sin. But at last, on that day, the devices of death would be used against someone who actually deserved to be hit by the destructive power that they can cause.

The old bastard couldn't say a word before he entered the bedroom. The thunder sounded again, and with it a piercing scream of pain. His knee was ruined, and from it blood gushed and soaked the sheets. He was now helpless. The revenge could take place. The smell of alcohol filled the place, and a match sealed his fate.

He walked to the backyard then. Her body, maculated by the pervert's violence, even so was still beautiful somehow. With the left arm he embraced her and softly kissed her muzzle. A tear, sparkling with the distant crimson flames, rolled down on his face before he decided to join her, and with the right hand he made the thunder sound once more.