Tales of a Southern Gentleman: Jail time

Vernon had been through some rough things… you would think jail would be the roughest. The poor man sat in the jail cell, no hat, no boots; he’d been stripped of all his good qualities as a man. And even worse, his facial hair was starting to stubble. Vernon was thrown in this shabby cell about two days ago on the supposed crime of breaking and entering, with possible accounts of theft and assault. Did he do it? Maybe a smidge of breaking and, in fact, entering. A dash of assault, but he was no thief. Would he be the one to admit to it? Fuck no. 

The night had been a cooler one. The rest of the town had fallen asleep early compared to all other days. The only people up were degenerates and hard workers, hard to tell the difference nowadays. Vernon was up, laid back in his truck looking off at a house in the distance. It was a new farmhouse… ‘Modern’ as the people were saying it now. A silhouette of two people painted a window pane, the dull yellow light barely lighting up the interior of the downstairs family room. Now why would a sweetheart of a man such as Vernon Ross be stalking this house? Cause one of the people residing in that house had hurt his dog. For what reason? Vernon had not a clue, but the man was seeing curtains of red since he found Doc limping back out in his fields. 

Vernon Ross was many things. Hard-working, determined, a true gentleman, but no one’s ever described the cowboy as level-headed. Much less rational when it came to his own personal interests. So when that dying little light turned off for the night it was boots to the dirt and to the house, he went. A man of his stature wasn’t stealthy and he wasn't no goddamn spy neither. His boot stomps heeded a warning signal of what was to come and it happened to fall upon deaf ears. A small wooden door like that stood no chance against the worn boot of Vernon, much less a hit from calloused knuckles. The door came down with a harsh thud. His eyes caught a glimpse of the upstairs hall light turning on. The young man, no much younger than Vernon himself, came out of a room in plaid pajama pants. 

“What are you doin-”

“You know exactly what I'm doin’ ‘ere!” Vernon shouts up at him. The man was stunned silent by his booming voice. People knew better than to cross the likes of Vernon and this guy had stomped all over that line. “You touched my dog. Now I’m gonna return the favor.” Fight or flight had consumed this man, he stood unmoving at the top of the stairs as Vernon made the short climb to the top. Gripping tightly to his shirt Vernon pulls him close. “Best start prayin’ boy, 'cause when I’m done you’ll be thanking god if you’re graced to suck in air through a tube for the resta’yer life.” 

He ended up in a cell after that. The cops came a knockin the next morning. Some prissy called in wanting to press charges on a ‘tall, rugged, devil of a man’, which apparently, accurately describes Vernon. They hauled him in to question him, but no cop had the balls to come do it yet. Sheriff came in the next morning and let him out, couldn't hold him based on a shotty description.