hogwash

Melbourne

A thick bank of fog rolls along the dark surface of a moonlit swamp. A rocking chair creeks against the warped wooden porch of a shotgun shack. The faint smell of reefer smoke and damp earth mingle in the humid night air. A wild dog howls somewhere close. Moonlight glints off a sweating bottle of beer, off a rusty bowie knife, off a discarded length of chain in the everglades. Faded denim. Cracked leather. Gasoline. Want to wallow with the Hogs? Expect to get dirty.