Old Greg
He won't back down
I've been sittin' here all mornin'
I was sittin' here all night
There's a Bible in my left hand
And a pistol in my right
Scarecrow in the Garden, Chris Stapleton
Old Greg refused to die, and everyone in town was utterly infuriated by his stubbornness.
His family were among the first intrepid souls to brave a dangerous and wearisome journey to the once remote and hostile territory, but now he was the last of his kind. And the railroad men were circling like vultures; eagerly awaiting the moment they could dig their avaricious talons into his juicy parcel.
Old Greg’s plot was a vast piece of fertile land that bordered the town of Shady Brook. The townsfolk desperately wanted their burgeoning hamlet to become a railroad destination, but Old Greg adamantly refused to sell his birthright to those he so eloquently defamed as Gawddamn carpetbaggin’ bloodsuckers.
“You have no family left!” they berated him day after day. “You’ll be dead before long, so what does it matter? You can’t work the land all by yourself anyhow. Do what’s good for the town!”
“Y’all are traitors to yer ancestors!” Old Greg would spit right back in their disgruntled faces, his grizzled and timeworn visage puckered up with indignation. “Our folk built Shady Brook from nothin’ and yer gonna jus’ give it away the first chance ye get!”
“Stupid, ridiculous old man! The railroad men are going to have their way, you’ll see! They always get what they want.”
“I’ll be waitin’. Y’all know where to find me.”
Sure enough, they showed up one evening with a sizable posse to finally rid the curmudgeon of his worldly possessions. And, true to his word, Old Greg sat swaying in a weathered rocking chair on his ramshackle front porch, with a 12-gauge coach gun laid casually across his lap. The soothing chorus of chirping crickets and croaking frogs abruptly ceased their nightly ritual as the older man hefted his double barrel shotgun.
“Took ye bastards long enough,” Old Greg drawled nonchalantly. He exhaled a stoic breath. “Well, let’s get this over with.”
A thunderous barrage replaced nature’s erstwhile symphony; violently fracturing the repose of a balmy summer evening.
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This Greg may be old, but he ain't got no mangina. Just a loaded gun, a rockin' chair, and a bone to pick.
Hippity hoppity, just try and take his property!
A very detailed portrait of a man trying to protect his home. Good ending.