Firewater Moan by Kirk Marshall ‘Gators moving upriver the day before yester. Evil-looking brutes, too, if you mark ‘em by the coil in their tail.’ These gnomic utterances whistled through Keepsake’s pink moustache as his jaws continued seething away, gums candied with nicotine. ‘Fancied fucking a mama gator one time. Not for the sport, you understand. For the science in it. We were all lizards once, that’s cold fact, I’ve read up on all the big nature journals and whatnot. […]