August. A breathless night. Grandma shuffled onto the porch.
With beer.
It was icy.
“What? How?”
“Got the frigerator fixed.”
As we took the first reviving belt a voice spoke from the darkness.
“I’ll take them beers.”
“You gonna hafta come get em.”
Grandma dropped into her saggy old chair.
The guy who stepped into the lamplight was as big as a house and he had a Colt lined on Grandma.
But ten-gauge gauge trumps handgun, and Grandma right about blew a hole through him with the sawn-off she slid out from under her cushions.
“Cheers,” she said.
Working Title Blogspot 
Go, Granny!
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