'' Son, I can shoot a sand flea's pecker clean off at a 1000 paces, leavin him alive enough to sing soprano in a choir.''''Shooting you wouldn't be no...kinda sportin contest should I chose to arm myself and I might just be of a mind to do just that if y'all don't curtail that racket.''''Who in hell's half acre are you boys and why are you in here?''''Y'all making enough noise to wake stonewall Jackson from his eternal rest.''And on and on with all sorts of blah- blah woof-woof shooting out her. He approached the stage. Olga took a cat out of the chest and showed it to me. It was a real torture instrument; the hide strips hung ominously from its business end were not the soft cabretta or even velvet found for sale in adult toy stores. My eyes opened wide on seeing this; this thing could maim if used carelessly. Had it been anyone else wielding the whip, but Brett or Olga I would probably have cut Lynette out of her bindings right then and there. I might have succeeded too.Brett took up. More

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