"LORD HAVE MERCY ON MY SOUL." The SteelDrivers (If It Hadn't Been For Love)

Dread curls down my spine like the serpent that fooled Adam and Eve. The freezing wind biting at my neck doesn't help either, fear and Dad's words all jumbled together in my mind while the wind hows worse than the dogs down by Brumley. Things had taken a turn for the worse - or at least that's what I'd thought for the past few days. Now, I was in such deep shit, I should be able to shake my granddad's hand. Yeah, I mean the one six feet under.

Things have gone to shit, and there really isn't anyone willing to help me set it straight. What happened with Syl and Dally was just a one-time thing, especially after some pigs drove by and almost grabbed us. I'm pacing the street, trying to clear my mind, and all I can come up with is some dead guy's last words. It's Saturday night and Tulsa is roaring almost as loud as Dad's engine when he pulls to a screeching halt on the corner. The car's nothing special, just a black thunderbird he's won in a game of poker or something. I really don't care anymore. Not about my father, or anything that goes with him. It would be so easy to just walk away from him, to maybe even just decide none of this is worth it and head back to the house. I hate him. I really, really, hate him. And yet, when he rolls down his window and ushers me to him, I follow. Like a lamb drawn to a shepherd. A motherfucking Shepard. "Where's the fire, huh? The bar's back thatta way," he scoffs. It takes all I have in me to not roll my eyes and stay quiet. He really isn't much like an actual shepherd, a wolf in the pen is more like it. With that damned grin and cool eyes, he's waiting for me to break the silence and give him enough ammunition to end this once and for all.

I'm not a son to him - I never have been. All we've ever been was his backup plan. No matter how horrific his fuck-ups, he thought he could always come back to us. To his family. I wasn't a son to him, I was the playing piece he used to fuck with some poor kids' heads. And, as of late, I'd become the only thing standing against him. "To Pat's," I mutter after letting the question fester. The soles of my shoes grind against the pavement, broken glass, and rock. At the same time, Dad grinds his teeth. It's slow and barely noticeable, but it's there. He's losing me, little by little, and there ain't gonna be shit he can do about it. "We'll meet you at the bar, alright? They're gonna be there all night anyway." The words taste like vinegar - sharp and acidic - but it's better than the metallic flavour of blood I can't seem to escape. One large hand curls around his chin as he looks at me again, almost thoughtfully.

"You're lookin' a lot like your old man, Tim," he spits, without even an attempt to be genuine. "So you better not fuck this up. You be at Buck's within an hour, or maybe I'm gonna have to straighten you out, too." The window cranks up before I can scowl at him. Then, with an obnoxious screech, he's gone again. I wished he'd never come back, but I wasn't deserving of any miracles, as of late. I know where he's going; I know what he's gonna do. He leaves nothing but dust and doubt in his wake as the headlights vanish around the corner, headed straight for the north side of town and the two people waiting for him there.

Pat isn't waiting for me. Pat can barely stand the sight of me after what I'd done, and I couldn't blame him. I know I'm not a likeable person. I know I'm a greaser, and a hood, a stupid teenage boy, and the eldest son of Frank Shepard. Pat doesn't have to forgive me, he doesn't have to think about me after tonight. But tonight, he just has to worry about one person.

If it weren't for the baby in his arms, I know Pat would've tried to make a more permanent reminder, since the last bruise had already begun to fade. His hair's a mess, sticking up every which way as Katie squirms in his grasp - for a minute, she begins to reach for me instead. "I told you," he says, yanking her back from me as if I was the bad guy here. In context, I was worse than him, but what the hell would I do with his kid? "I don't care anymore, Shepard. You're on your own."

Fine, I'll admit it, his words sunk a little deeper than I anticipated. Sure, he'd thrown my last name around a couple times, a reminder that it was still something to be proud of. This time, his tongue was dripping with malice. And yet, all I could do was wait for him to get it out of his system before grovelling on his fucking doorstep. This will surely be one for the calendar. Or the news, whichever finds out first. "Tim Shepard, admitting he was wrong." "I'm serious, Tim," Pat groans again before adjusting the baby on his hip. "You've dug your own fuckin' grave, now go lie in it." That's the thing though. Unless I can get him down to Buck's before the hour's up, it ain't just gonna be my sins I'll finally be cashing in. I wait until Pat's face has flushed back to its somewhat-natural hue before even trying to open my mouth. Baby or not, Pat's got the high ground here, a lot more searing rage than I do, and a mean fucking sucker-punch.

"It ain't about me, I mutter, my teeth are grinding together tighter than tires of fresh tar. "It's Marley, alright? I-"

The only thing stopping Pat from slamming the door on my face right then and there, is Katie, yanking away on her daddy's hair and squealing with glee. "I don't care, alright? What you did was real fuckin' shitty, an' I ain't about to tell Marley to take you back," he spits between trying to close the door and prying Katie's fingers from his ear. "If you really cared about her as much as you pretend you do, you'd let her move on."

Pat had been my best friend for years, remember? I showed him around Tulsa when he first showed up, taught him a couple of moves, I even picked up baby formula from the store for this dickhead. And now, sweat was still winding down my spine while my blood vessels are threatening to rupture simultaneously. I really did fuck up, I know I fucked up, and I know damn well I won't be able to fix it on my own. My hands are stained with enough blood, I really ain't fixing to add her's to the mix. My mind's starting to race along with my heart as I count the seconds ticking down, slipping through the hourglass. Piling up higher and higher as my time runs out.

"You don't have to ever talk to me again, alright?" I'm pulling at my sleeves and bouncing around on my feet worse than some sketched-out junkie, but it does nothing to alleviate the pressure building in the back of my throat. "I don't even need you to help me, I-I just need to get Marley away from the bar." My voice is strained, I can feel my pulse in my fucking eyes, but Pat just stands there. Katie falls silent in his arms, Her shirt's too big for her, its stained edges nearly cover her knees. Like always, her hair's a mess of auburn curls while the light catches in her dark eyes. She smiles at me and I can just barely make out two tiny white slivers. "C'mon Patrick," I mumble stupidly. I don't think I've ever really been this desperate. I've never expected someone like him to really turn away from me, I guess is what I'm tryna say.

It kinda hurts more than I thought it would.

"What do you want me to do here, man? Fuckin' beg?" My voice wobbles, there's no use tryna hide the fact. Life is kicking my ass right now, and I'm about to kick his if Pat doesn't make up his fucking mind. "Please, Pat," I croak. "I don't have anyone on my side anymore."

But I deserve it, right? I was a bad student, a bad kid, a bad friend. I'd killed a girl just to keep her safe, so a few weeks later I could tell her I never gave a damn about her in the first place. I really was just carrying on another Shepard tradition; one monumental fuck up after the other. I guess I shoulda realized it would end up this way. Hell, Dad was seventeen when he shot for the first time, I was already two years ahead. I don't realize Pat's already turned away, hauling Katie with him, until I hear the door snap shut.

I've got forty-five minutes now. Forty-five minutes to make it across town, forty-five minutes to talk Marlet out of playing some sort of hero, all for her brother's sake. It's a Saturday night in Tulsa, Oklahoma as I make my way down the road, yanking at the collar of my jacket 'til it brushes against my jaw. The moon's hanging low in the sky, leaving behind nothing but a hazy, yellow glow as the clouds are pushed in front of it. The street's just as dark as the sky, shadows of mailboxes and houses all bleed together as I pass them. Beneath my feet, gravel and glass all mash together, reminding me of the way Dad's teeth always ground when he said something he didn't like. He'd always done that a lot. I reach the end of the street while my mind's still wandering - that was my mistake. I feel the hand on my shoulder before I could feel the hot breath on the back of my neck. In an instant, I spin on my heel and practice just enough self-restraint that I don't shatter Pat's nose, even if it could pass as an accident. "Real smooth, Tim. I'm skipping Katie's bedtime stories to help you straighten your shit out and you try to break my goddamn face. You have any idea how expensive surgery is here?"

He knows I know. He knows I hate it when he throws his arm around my shoulder with enough force to pull me in front of him, but Pat knows I'm pretty out of it tonight. "Surgery's expensive," I agree after a minute. We're both stumbling along with every step, adrenaline pounding like the feet of the horses they bring in for the rodeos every summer. I'm really not a fan of the feeling, but I have to assume it's gotta be better than flipping on the news tomorrow and hearing of the massacre down at Buck's bar. "Weed's getting pricey, too. Jacking up the price 'cause of inflation."

"You even know what inflation is, Shepard?"

I shrug off his question as the racket of a dozen drunk voices carries through the air. Just like I'd anticipated, Dad's car is parked right out front, Buck's tacky red lighting caught in the headlights. "I know it's making weed more expensive," I say numbly. I don't bother telling him I can't sleep without it - or that Donna's face twists into Marley's, immortalized forever at seventeen behind The Dingo. People stumble in and out, leaning on one another or collapsing to the concrete, emptying their stomachs of all the fake liquor it had been forced to hold. Against all the chaos, Pat's voice is cool and calm beside me, like a razor's edge. "You got a plan yet?"

"You take the front door, I'll take the back. If you see Marley, tell her to head home, yeah? There's a better chance she'll listen to you than me." With a solemn nod, we each take a final breath - as if it was any cleaner than the air we'd been breathing the whole way over here. "Thanks for this," I manage before storming across the road. He just shrugs before pulling at the collar of his own jacket and turning left, making his way up the sidewalk and towards Buck's unlocked door. I, on the other hand, head straight, stepping precariously around the heaps of garbage and God only knows whatever else while searching for the back entrance. I was expecting a lot of things to be waiting for me in that alley. Garbage - obviously - a couple or two, maybe even the shadow of my former sins waiting to swallow me whole. The only thing I hadn't though out, was the very thing I'd come here to find.

She reeks of perfume, beer, and smoke. SHe wearing close to what I'd seen her in the last time we'd been on this street, a tight skirt and a blouse with the broken buttons. Her eyes are fixed in a stone-cold glare, but I really couldn't care less. As long as she's here, that means- "Can you just leave me alone? God, you got what you wanted, didn't you?"

Not even close. I really haven't gotten a goddamn thing I wanted, and I don't know who to blame for it. It would be all too easy to just tell her everything, to reach for her hand before she has the thought to pull away. My hands are still cold, despite the sweat burning in the middle of my palms, followed by pinpricks of blood and crescent-shaped dents. I can smell her from here, see the rough light shining back in her eyes and off her lips. Her face is twisted in confusion, I can even make out the small scar on the side of her face. "Marley," I barely have time to get her name past my lips before she begins to turn around. I follow after her immediately, managing to trap her wrist against my palm, tight enough I can feel her pulse hammering away against my skin. "You gotta go home," I say as she twists. Marley spins around, trying with every bit of strength she possesses to get away from me. The pressure's back in my throat, growing stronger and stronger until I'm sure it'll shatter. "You're gonna get hurt-"

I spit her hair from my mouth when she finally settles and her shoulders heave with tired breaths. I push the hair from her face and tuck it behind my ear before I can stop myself, only to be met with recoil while she strains against my grip once more. "You don't care about me, Tim, you've said it yourself." I don't have time to run around in these circles with her over and over again, I fucking know that, but even a furious Marley Curtis seemed more welcoming than the trigger-happy trio waiting for me on the other side of the brick wall. Her skin's flushed a vibrant red, even more aggressive than the lights flashing through Buck's grimy windows. "I swear, Tim, i-if you don't let me go-" she yanks her wrist back again. No release. "-I'll scream, an' then Buck'll be out here in an instant ready to-"

"You take one more step- an'- and I'll scream."

I'm pretty sure those were her last words. She couldn't pull her eyes away from the gun in my hand, her blonde hair was framing her face, stuck in place with tears and sweat. Her lips were a real dark red - a lot darker than I'd thought a girl like her would wear. She'd cried when it happened, I know that much. Thick, gurgled cries - probably supposed to be words. Probably what she wanted her last words to be, instead of just begging for life in front of two stupid kids too busy playing as real thugs for their daddies' approval. I didn't hear her last words. I didn't hear what Andy had shouted at me afterwards either, not when the gun had gone off six feet from my ear. Hell, I was lucky I could hear Marley when she was fixing me up. I really should've listened to Donna more.

"Just let me go, it's cold out here... Tim-"

It's a dull thud on the other side of the wall at first, followed by the stupid ring of the ears, and my hand automatically pulling Marley closer. I almost choke on her hairspray, but I manage to keep it down. People are screaming, running out of the bar now and flocking to the streets. Not a single one of them takes advantage of Buck's back door, though. Their drunken silhouettes escape into the nighttime air as they pass the alley. I know they'll head home soon. Or maybe down to Charlie's bar (Buck's sure it's a knock-off) and drink until the guy pulling a gun in the middle of Hank's Cold, Cold Heart can just be another figment of their altered imaginations. Like always, we'll be getting the short end of the stick. It doesn't matter what happens now, it's not like I'll be able to forget it, anyway.

It's been years, but I still remember Dad's stories. It's been months, but I still remember the sharp teeth of handcuffs digging into my wrists. Those bruises stuck around just as long as the image of that guy and my sister, festering in my mind. It's been weeks, but I still remember the weight of Donna's hand collapsing on my own, damp and sticky. I still remember the sound those rocks made when they knocked against my window, I can still remember when Marley pushed her lips against mine. That's when her skin finally leaves mine and I barely have time to call out to her. "Marley, just let me take you home," I say before stumbling after her. She's hopped over the garbage carelessly, all while muttering to herself and keeping her eyes wide. My fingers brush against her sleeve when her hands finally curl around the doorknob.

"Darry's still in there," she whispers."I-I can't lose 'im, too."

I want to tell her I won't hurt her. I want to warn her about what she's about to walk into, and that everything I'm about to say in there is the biggest fucking lie I've ever said. But there's no time. The door is flung open and we're greeted with dissipating clouds of smoke, Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues, and the barrel of a gun level with Darry Curtis's chest and gleaming under the light. It's dark, but not impossible to make out the five other people in the room. The neck of the bottle in my dad's hand holds the light, casting shadows on the filthy floor. Mr. Keep is standing beside him as they both stare at Darry. On the other side of the bar, Pat's blocked the only other exit. His face is a deep red again, this time with anxiety rather than rage. The only thing separating us, is Andy Keep, standing in the middle of the floor, wearing a thin yellow smile. "Well, would you look at that," he laughs, "whatcha doin' here, doll?"

I can't tell if the sound is a gasp or a whimper, but Marley takes a half-step backwards. I can feel their eyes trained on me, burning under my skin like hellfire. It doesn't stop when I lock my arms around her, trapping her against my chest. "Caught her outside," I spit gruffly. Andy's grin is nothing but malicious as he rakes his eyes over her bare legs and short skirt before settling on her chest, then diving back down again. I don't know if he's just tryna scare her - or if he plans on acting on it - but it's enough to make my eyes turn to the side. We're parallel to the bar at this moment in time, parallel to the body on the ground behind it, too. My stomach lurches as I catch sight of dark blood pooling from his mouth, it sticks to his straw-coloured hair and stains his white wife-beater. His rifle's been knocked to the floor, the barrel still clutched in his hand. "She was 'bout to run an' call the cops," I finish.

They've got Darry pinned against the wall like a bearskin rug. With every minuscule movement, Dad's gun stays level with his chest. With his heart. Slowly, he takes a lazy sip from the bottle before dragging the back of his hand across his stubbly lip and laughing. "Don't get your dick in a knot, Darrel," he spits while pointing at Marley. "Ain't a damn thing gonna happen to the girl, long as you do what you're told."

I'm grasping at straws, begging for a miracle I don't deserve, but I can't help it. All I need is for Darry to dump his pockets out and leave. No ones gotta get hurt, no more shots have to fire into Buck's drywall. Her heart is running a mile-a-minute against my chest, though she's given up on trying to fight me. I shouldn't be glad - especially considering the circumstances - but at least no one else is tryna make a grab for her. Andy is pacing across the floor like a caged animal, dark eyes flickering back and forth between two captives. Darry's words come out in rapid huffs of breath, but I can hear them all the same - even if I wished I hadn't. "An' what if I don't? You gonna pop a cap in her like you did Donna?"

For a second, Marley goes limp. I stumble back under the sudden weight, and it doesn't help now that she's fighting tooth and nail to get away from me. Once I gain my footing again and trap her arms at her sides, the only thing I can feel is a single drop splatter against the back of my hand. "You didn't," she mumbles thickly, "Tim, please tell me you didn't-"

Andy looks worse than the last time I'd seen him. Bug-eyed and bowlegged, he manages to stumble and drag his feet across the flattest part of Buck's flooring. Close up, he's even worse. His hair is a mess of lank strands, and I can tell the grease wasn't a style choice this time. His nails are chipped and filthy, with eyes bigger than the plates they served the meals on in reform. Now, I ain't about to say I feel sorry for the prick, but I think his weird walk and crazy eyes had something to do with his new crooked nose and a black eye. Like I'd said before; I didn't know Mr. Keep well enough to say anything about him, but if he hung around folks like Dad, I wouldn't trust him with a cactus - much less a child.

I can smell the stale booze on his lips when he comes forwards and brushes his fingers against Marley's skin. "Tim didn't do jackshit, baby," he says in a voice barely more than a whisper. Marley's heartbeat's skyrocketed again, I can feel it as she tries to get as far away from him as possible. The only thing she can do - as my arms are still wrapped around her and settle on her waist - is push herself further into me and try to get his hand off her face. His loose grip brushing against her cheek suddenly turns into a claw, nails sharp enough to draw blood around her jaw. Darry shuffles forwards now, veins pulsating under his skin at the sight of his girlfriend's killer running his fingers over Marley's lips. "Don't you fucking touch her," he snarls. With enough venom, Darry Curtis could make the simplest statement intimidating. He grabs hold of Andy's attention for a split-second, though the illusion is destroyed when Mr. Keep grabs his shoulders and raises his knee to the young man's stomach. She cries out as her brother crumbles to the floor, weaker than a house of cards in a tornado.

It really does all happen in an instant. Andy slips his hand around the back of her neck while the other threatens to push up her skirt. Marley kicks him before I can make sense of what's happening, all because of Darry's muffled words as he tries to fight his way to us. "Don't you move from that door," Dad orders Pat. He's waving the gun through the air like a toy - as if it isn't the very weapon to kill Donna Micheals a few weeks prior. His body goes rigid on the other side of the room, eyes latched onto mine, eyes wide and waiting for instruction. I really don't have anything to say, nothing besides "make sure Katie has a dad to tuck her in tomorrow night."

"You think you're tuff shit, don't you, Curtis? That's where this all comes from, right?" The words fall over Dad's lips heavy with malice and alcohol. Each one is punctuated with a swift kick to Darry's rips and face, too. "Ya' think runnin' around with those rich litter fuckers is gonna keep you from paying the price?" Another kick, straight to the middle of his chest, as Mr. Keep turns his dark eyes to us. Andy's kneeling on the floor, one arm loosely pulled against his stomach until he can breathe right again. "-An' if those buddies of yours are so great," Dad snarls, "why'd they leave you and your sister here?"

I don't think I'll ever forget the way Darry yells out after that. I won't forget the way Dad looked at me, with a thin smile, I'll never forget the way Marley shrieked when Andy pounced forwards and pulled her into him. "Let me go!" She screams dreadfully, "you sick, slimy, son of a- a fuck!"

Now that her back isn't pressed against me, her perfume isn't all I can breathe, I don't know what to feel. I can't feel my heart beating or adrenaline running through my bloodstream, not even the sweat running down my neck and back like rain. On either side of the bar, there's a thump. It's hard to see in the dark, but I'm glad it's there. I don't wanna see Darry collapse on the floor, blood pooling from his mouth, and I don't wanna see the look on Marley's face as her screams are cut short and turn into garbled chokes and gasps as Andy wraps a hand around her throat, calling her every name in the fucking book. "Figure Tim musta kept you 'round for as long as he did for a reason, Marley."

I lied when I said I couldn't feel anything, not now, anyway. My stomach twists and - in an attempt to keep my cool - I look to my right. Buck is still unconscious on the floor behind the counter, blood smeared across his face and down the front of his wife-beater. His eyes are still closed, gazing up at the cracks in his ceiling while his hand is still wrapped around the barrel of his daddy's shotgun.

"Don't cry about it, baby, I ain't gonna hurt you that bad..."

"I don't care what you do to me anymore, alright? Just- just let Marley go home, please!"

"You sound a lot like your old man," Dad taunts. The pistol is still pointed at Darry's chest, it doesn't matter that he's slumped between the wall and floor now. His finger rests heavy on the safety; one flick, and Darry's one step closer to being reunited with his parents. "Why don't you say it again, Darrel. Say-"

"If I hear one for fuckin' word outta you, I'll spray whatever's left of your brains across the fucking ceiling." My voice sounds like breaking glass, shrill and cracks on every damn syllable. But I think the sudden jab I gave him between the shoulder blades with the gun is enough to get my demand across. "Drop the gun an' turn around."

My eyes flicker back and forth like a dying flame between the two men in front of me. I catch sight of something in my peripheral, just a flash of black leather and red hair before I hear three bodies plummet to the floor and Marley's dry hacking. I want to turn around. I wanna turn around and blow Andy's brains clean outta his fucking skull, but I'm not that stupid. I know better than to take my eyes off my father, even when he drops the gun to the disgusting floor with a heavy thud. Despite having his face used as a soccer ball, Darry still had enough sense to lean forwards and slide the pistol away from us. It screeches across the floor, just another dark shadow in the sinister light, before coming to a stop in front of the jukebox. It's dead silent now, quiet enough that I can finally make out a few of Johnny's words as he strums along.

"But I wouldn't shoot without a cause; I'd gun nobody down-"

"Think about what you're doing," Dad warns seriously. I grind my teeth together some more, sure that they'll be ground to dust by the time the night is over. "I'm thinknin', alright. Thinkin' about pulling the trigger an' puttin' an end to all your bullshit."

I realize now, as I drag the rifle back and forth between the two men in front of me, I really do have it in me to kill someone. I realize then, all a person needs is to be blind. Rather that be rage, hate, or pure fucking spite, they just need to ignore the humanity of the person staring at them on the other end. I stare at his hair first, the same raven-black locks we'd all so graciously inherited. Next are his thin, scarred lips, pushed into a wry smile. I feel like I'm staring in a mirror when I finally reach his eyes. Like I'm back in the house - the bathroom - in a cold sweat and acting like I can scrub away Donna's dead body from behind my eyelids. The trigger feels cold and smooth under my finger, begging to be pulled. I would've; if it weren't for Darry still behind them, and Marley still behind me choking on her tears and gasps.

"He drank his first strong liquor, then to calm his shaking hand-"

Mr. Keep looks just as unruly as his son. Greased up hair, building eyes, clothes that don't hang right. For a dealer fresh outta the can though, he knows better than to move around too much when there's a sight trained on him. My dad, on the other hand, is the one pushing his luck. He wipes his hand through his hair first, before slowly raising his bottle and taking a long and slow sip. When he's finished, he drags the back of his hand across his lips and scoffs. "So now what, kid? You got the gun, you got the girl... You gonna shoot me now?"

"Filled with rage then, Billy Joe reached for his gun to draw-

"You shot your daddy when you were seventeen," I mutter savagely. I can't feel the ache in my limbs anymore as I reposition the stock into my shoulder and steady my aim. "You told me I looked a lot like you, right? Maybe we're just a little too similar."

There's something dangerously close to pride in my father's eyes when he sighs and risks a sideways glance at his business partner. "I was always real proud of you, kid. It ain't easy becoming the man of the house at ten, but you did it pretty fucking well." He laughs again as if we're old pals reminiscing about the good ol' days and not a father and son, standing on opposite ends of a loaded gun. He raises the ugly brown bottle to his mouth and swallows whatever is left in a single go, never once taking his eyes off me after that. "I'm a bad guy, Tim, I know that." I can feel my hackles raise, the gun gets slippery as my palms sweat. At this point, I can't tell if the incessant pounding is from the bass, my heart, or if the pigs finally did decide to swing by. I'll go ahead and blame it on the cheap weed that still permeates the air. That's what I could barely see, that's why I wanted to fight and sleep all at the same time.

"We're a lot more alike than I woulda thought," Dad drawls out slowly, the bottle still hanging in his hand. Swaying, more like it. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth like a pendulum. "There's only one little difference, as far as I can see-" the bottle stops. The shadows are thick and dark now, the bass is louder and the music seems to rock the entire foundation.

"I never fucked up my daddy's business."

People say that if you hear the shot, it wasn't meant for you. I hear the gun go off, feel it slam back into my shoulder, I feel white-hot pain explode through my body like shattering glass. Like a shattered beer bottle. I hear Marley scream out, too, but I can't make out any of the words. I think it's kinda funny; if I thought I was ever gonna die in Buck Merril's bar, Hank Williams' would be playing, not Johnny Cash. My dad being here was a weird touch, too. I didn't expect the song to be so fitting, either.

"Don't take your guns to town, son

Leave your guns at home, Bill

Don't take your guns to town."