Redneck Press with Fried Chicken and Coffee

On the night Darla died, Wayne was sit­ting at the kitchen table, wash­ing down a cou­ple of her Per­co­cets with a cold Bud­weiser, when it he slapped him like a strip of leather across his bearded cheek. He knew. That’s how he describes it to his son D.J., just out of Y.D.C., who is sit­ting […] ↓ Read the rest of this entry…