Big Daddy thought he’d done pretty well adjusting to the rebelliousness of his teenaged daughter. The pot smoking didn’t bother him – hell, he’da smoked it too, if he’da known about it as a boy. Prob’ly tasted better than that rotgut moonshine old Big Buddy, Buddy Sattva’s dad, used to run off down by the creek. But it’s one thing to buy ‘shine from trailer trash; it’s quite another to have your daughter slumming with one. Socially embarrassing, don’cha know. And besides that, he’d seen how Betts watched Buddy’s butt as he left her house that day…
Big Daddy believed that money is the answer to any problem. “Always has been,” he puffed through the pricey smoke of a black market Cuban cigar, “always will be.”
He’d made his money the old-fashioned way, by inheriting vast tracts of family land, land which had long since been leased to farmers who actually worked the fields, and which required no effort from the owner beyond depositing the lease checks.
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“I’ll make a sizeable donation in his name to the First Baptist,” he decided. “He’ll understand why, and he’ll also understand that I still consider him a sanctimonious sumbitch.”
TO BE CONTINUED…