It was late, the clock in the room chimed midnight. He cussed at it, ’cause he’d always hated clocks that chimed. Especially when it was late. And especially when he was drunk. Which he was. That’s why he accidentally hit the microphone with his glass that was half full of whiskey. He cussed again. He put his feet up on the table, grabbed hold of the microphone, and held it while he took another sip of his drink. The ice clicked around in his glass, which must have worked to make him feel a little less frustrated and a little more focused. He cleared his throat and then he began. “Well, little brother, if you’re listening to this, then I reckon I’m as dead as Grandma. I also reckon this fool’s mission we’re sending these poor folks on failed, just like most of us think it will.” He sighed and looked around the room. He spied the Superman action figure I’d given him just a couple weeks before. He got up and grabbed it, then he sat back down. “I’m holding on to that Superman you gave me.
What do You think about The Struggles Of Johnny Cannon?
