Furlong-Bolliger Booneville Retribution By S. Furlong-Bolliger “You know, my wife, Dawn, just has no sense of humor anymore,” I was telling the guys. We were hanging out at Sid’s Hardware. They offered free coffee and a few of us had gotten into the habit of gathering there in the mornings. “Well Larry,” Chet started, pausing to spit a sunflower shell into his white foam cup. I’d never seen Chet without a mouthful of sunflower seeds. “It’s hard to keep any sense of humor around here since Halport closed. Most of the town’s out of work.” “Yeah, those SOBs at Halport,” Hank added. Hank never minced words. “I get that guys, believe me,” I said. “It’s just Dawn. She’s over the edge these days.” Chet tossed his cup into the trash, folded his arms across his chest, and let out a long sigh. “What’s her problem, Larry?” I could feel the corner of my mouth twitch with anticipation. “Well, she was complaining, as usual. Seems she’s so bitchy these days.
