A Hand Around His Neck
I remember the first time I witnessed a killing. I was only 6 years old. The poor guy had his neck snapped in two. But he was a stubborn brawler. He refused to go down without a loud and bitter ruckus.
My father was a country preacher had spent over five minutes chasing the victim around the back yard of our southern home, roughly 30 miles from a tough patch of the Appalachian mountain.
Finally, my dad cornered the victim and with a quick twist of his powerful hands he…
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Posted on December 1, 2008 at 1:32am —
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