By Brad Rose
Whatever became of Little Leo? Last time I saw him, he looked like a death certificate before the ink dries. You remember his little bullet eyes? He’d draw a bead on you, and like a breezy skeleton, you’d feel empty as a two-way mirror on a one-way street. That little smile of his, like a broken hinge on cell door. Nobody lives forever, but I miss those machete days. The August nights, when the summer bugs would splatter like bloody eggs all over your windshield, and the dead cleared the way for the living. Did anybody ever call his girlfriend?
“You can’t blame a writer for what the characters say.” ― Truman Capote