An Outlaw's Lament

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Although the road seems endless,

And the sheriff's on our tail,

I've sold my soul for the one I love,

And it's a short, rough ride to hell.

She read it aloud, and the note of pride in her voice did not go unnoticed. Ben smiled.

"I think I like that," she said, sliding closer to nibble his earlobe. "Maybe I'll add another verse to it. Finish it off professional-like."

"Not while I'm driving, honey," he said.

She licked his lobe playfully, the faint taste of hair tonic burning her tongue.

"What say," she said, "next town we hit, you let me drop this off at the local paper. I think I'd like to see something I wrote in black and white before I fill a hole."

"That's not a good idea," he said, shoving his fedora higher on his forehead with a finger. "We gotta lot bad press those last few things you submitted."

"Yeah," she said, sliding over closer to the passenger window. "I like this one, Ben. It's roomy and doesn't smell like that last car you stole."

He stopped in the first small town they came to, filling up the tank, and sending her to buy a chunk of hoop cheese from the small country store beside the gas station.

On her way out, she spotted the newspaper office two doors down.

The poem was burning a hole in the pocket of her favorite polka-dot red dress. She loved the ric-rac on the collar, and the little belt that cinched her waist made her look even smaller.

Ben liked it too, but he said it was a bit too pretty and only drew attention to her.

"Ain't you got somethin' drabber?" he asked. "Battleship gray or black."

"I ain't gonna wear no dull dress to my funeral before I'm dead," she'd told him, refusing to take the cute number off.

He was in a good mood.

The last job they'd pulled netted them three thousand big ones. More money than he knew existed. The arsenal they'd broken into the week before left him feeling like he could out-gun any local pea-shooter patrol that might be inclined to give chase. So, he let her wear the dress.

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