Brad Rose


When all else fails, sometimes the best way to get to know someone is to shoot ‘em. Anyway, that’s what happened with my first husband (may he RIP—but that’s another story). We met just outside a bar on the west side of Tulsa, when his damn girlfriend said my hairdo looked like a chicken danced on my head.

Dang, I hate it when those biker babes make fun of my long hair, just 'cause it’s a little tall, and what’s worse, I had just went to “Janet’s Hair Doin’s,” where Janet her own self coiffed my bouffant. So I shot at that snotty bitch (not Janet, of course, but that biker bitch) and missed. I hit her boyfriend instead—just grazed him—and, later, as he laid in the middle of Baker street and I was apologizing to him for making his throttle arm hurt like that, I asked him out, cause I could see that blimpbag girlfriend of his was a totally useless bunch a cow ballast, who couldn’t stand the sight of blood, even if it wasn’t her own. Yeah, I told him I was usually a better shot, and not to judge me by my aim---‘cause I don’t usually miss when I know what I’m aiming for---at least when I got six in the chamber.