BOYD CROWDER

me: [sees justified gif on dash]

me: [strums guitar]

There was no lights on in the empty house. So long had there been any that the whole shell barely pulled out from the negative. Withdrawn from the world with it’s half caved in roof and partially pried foundation. Grief emblazoned through the rafters, begging for collapse. Nature taking it’s interest in massive payments, reclamation without respite. If eaten whole, orchestra swell into untrodden and full forgotten territory. It once held his Name. The scribe of family and blood; histories bleached by none other than times irreverent passin’. It felt like home, if it had shifted to a different dimension. Or maybe he had. Boyd couldn’t rightly tell anymore.

One heavy step onto the porch threatened the element pressured wood, announcing his entry into the past. Each subsequent move, a howl of ghosts. Hinge torn and gallows- mast sunk, Boyd wasn’t entirely sure he’d be able to pry the entry open. Storm door long flung, windows smashed to absolution, he took the handle in both hands and jimmied. As if nailed into the opposing angles, it didn’t budge, winding Boyd’s sails towards futility. One last smack at it with angry shoulder held no success either, forcing him to back off and find other entry. 

Rounding to the back door, he was slightly embarrassed with himself that he didn’t go straight for the obvious. A gaping hole that poured out into a field of unkempt bluegrass. Through it, the faint outline of what was once his kitchen...Their kitchen. 

“Hoy-wa der’, what-a-da-fuck you think your’ea doin’ here?!” A slurry pond of syntax and context collided so violently Boyd was thrown off guard. A hunkered figure, gaunt and desperate smeared itself from the blown-out darkness. Shotgun nose aimed and ready to deliver. Between the nod and the twitch there was no missing the narcotic situation the poor fella had emboldened himself with. 

“Now easy son’, I ain’t here to cause no harm...” Voice as relaxed and palliative as possible, Boyd held out his hand, palm forward. ” Put’er down...” He cooed at the junkie as one would a rabid coyote. 

“Geet-OUT for’ I shoot yuh good!” Spittle response as the stranger advanced; the world weary rags coming to light as they both pulled from the door frame. Moonwhite filling in abstract details, like the fact that there was no shell in the barrel, gap-toothed firearm ready to suck air. Before any remarks about the ineligibility of his opponents play, Boyd swore he felt the air move in uncertain ways. Like a match burning atmosphere, microfilm zephyr evaporating the moment. The addict some how recognizing he’d been caught in the bluff, primed the barrel and lunged it forward. Boyd’s reflexes paid more attention than his brain, jerking him back in response, causing the pipe to plow at his temple. Taking a sample of both hair and sebum the shotgun reamed past, pulling along the cargo of one stinkin’ body to near-miss collision. Rebar in boots allowed for Boyd to pivot, watch the man crumple into a string-cut puddle on the porch. Two stroke-beats of flailing, a murmered curse, then a desperate scramble for the gun.

Maybe it was the miles of exhaustion loosening the elastics of his reserve, but muscle memory won the spacial gambit ’tween mercy and malevolence. Laying down a stomp so severe Boyd heard the man’s graphite bones fracture. Subsequent scream riddling the night with a foul echoing swarm, a writhing carapace that gargled clemency.

He stood staring at the side of the barn. Flat hand an impromptu visor against the mid-afternoon sun. A over-ripened face painted grisly, easily two stories tall. The eyes were akimbo and the symmetry of the mouth was clearly off, but Boyd could swear he could pull decent recollection out of that face. Red baseball cap, emblazoned with white print; 

 MAKE JESUS GREAT AGAIN.

A retail mogul caricature dressed up as a saint figure for all to witness. Stoic in it’s parallels to propaganda of the southern Americas. The emperors face to be worshiped, the carpet to the throne woven tight in false silks. It was like a stamp certifying what he only imagined to be true. Current events spiraling into something blurred at the corners, Boyd only imagining what was transpiring beyond the prison gates. Knowing the headlines as they whispered through the cracks, static telephone wire of conspiracy theories and unhinged truths. At this point, there was no way to be certain how the free world was conducting itself; That the end times were assured commin’. How quickly the earth rotated when one steps off the conveyor belt, slipping into autocratic madness. 

It’s odd. The show Justified has been done for three years now and I really haven’t gone back to at any point except to watch a couple episodes with people who have never seen it. 

And despite all the engaging plots and fantastic characterization I always come back to one scene- or more accurately a collection of scenes in the last season. It was this very satiable sense of generational lapse. Where you have Loretta McReady, the youngn’ up and comin’ queen of cannabis county steal a room full of people. Engage them, froth them into a meringue of civil solidarity while two elder characters look on. Boom-town-shook-down the ladder and landing on a rung of something new. Boyd and Raylan are eroded in that moment... and they understand it. How important it is them for step aside and let new growth seed. 

Veronicas eyes stayed locked on Boyd. Her heart raced time itself in her chest, yet she looked calm and collected on the outside. The way he moved and spoke made her stomach tie in knots. The man behind her kept his hand on her shoulder as Boyd picked the gun up. “Momma knew your Daddy. Knew what you were like when you came back from Kuwait.” Ronnies voice was soft as Boyd picked up her weapon.

The gun being pointed at her made her sit back. The click of the safety having her eyes shoot back to the weapon quickly. Fear wasnt near what she felt, what was this feeling, disappointment? Yeah, that. The hand on her shoulder let go and cut the ties on her wrists. “Boyd, im willing to pay you whatever youre asking for what my friends ran off with.” She said, pulling her wrists forward.

Ronnie knew better than to hide her hands so she placed them on the table in front of her. Her hazel eyes now looked around the room, noting which directiom theyd came in from in case shed have to run. The girl was the spitting image of her father, his name was practically written on her forehead. Her movements seemed to scream the obvious but she was none the wiser.

“What’s that old idiom? The one ‘bout how it ain’t as important to outrun the bear- it’s all about outrunnin’ your compatriots? Well, m’dear look’s like you gatta work on your cardio.” A huff from his nostrils complimented the tight lip of a horizontal line, a very active bypass of his time served. 

It was only now that the concrete spine dissolve a bit, rigidity giving way to a more casual stance, one that pulled his left leg over so that his boot could limply rest over twin knee. One hand rested on the curvature of black denim. The other palming the pistol into the crux of his crotch; as good a resting place as any. 

“Look, name droppin’- kin or not- won’t win any favors from me. I don’t care whether your mamma swapped Juicy fruit with me in gawddamn middleschool or if your grandmammy knit me a Christmas sweater in 1983-” A swift intake of air cleared the table, allowing the young doe to ferment in a juice of misjudgment, a silent break to settle the sediments of what was actually a damn dire position. “-what I need from you is to retrieve what belongs to me.” The emphasis on the last word could have compared to a newton star in weight. Dropping through the floor into the core of the fucking earth.