Pagliacci...not the Clown...this Pagliacci was a Carpenter.

Stretch was wondering how she got the guts to leave him. As he thought, the summer breeze repeated through his aura on the heels of the bullwhip cracks of the screen door. It curdled his red rage sweat and made him feel worse feverish in his panic.  
Stretch also couldn’t place how he had been lifted back onto his filthy, booze-and-comestained recliner after she clobbered the hell out of him with that damn copper-bottom frying pan.  
He didn’t think long ~ for the River Tigris had opened his eyes. The warm steel of her bed marked his vision with the glowing pain of holiness. Stretch would soon, thank fuck, be dead.