“Fuck, I’m hungry, “said James as he vaulted over the fence.

They’d been out all night. Two drunk cowboys wandering the small-town streets at 4am, looking for women and a something to soak up the whisky. The laden orange tree peaked above the wall, glowing in the streetlight like a sign, one that Vernon could read even as he tripped over himself, beer in one hand, the other in his pants.

Lights came on in the house but neither James of Vernon took notice, orange juice dripping down their chins as they dug dirty fingernails into orange after orange.

“Hey!”

She stood on the porch with a shot gun and not a stitch, silhouetted by the lamp light from her parlor.

“I said hey!” Lowering to gun to their level, “you boys move along now.”

Vernon put his hands back in pants. His dirty balls will smell like oranges, a great improvement. He’s too drunk to think twice about mounting her stairs, which is bad news because she has no intention of shooting anyone. James follows. She lowers the gun and backs into her house, not quickly enough because Vernon puts his foot in the door before she can get it latched.

He grabs her and James takes the gun.

“We don’t mean harm, ma’am. We just…”

His sticky finger trails over her tit as he talks.