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"So tell me something. You enjoying fucking another man's wife, Martin?"

Martin fumbled with his fishing rod, almost dropping it as he gaped at the Sheriff, a mixture of shock, guilt, and fear on his face. "What?"

Sheriff Bill Potter held his own rod loosely, almost casually, in hand. "My wife. You been enjoying fucking her, boy?"

What little color Martin's face usually had had fled, leaving the already pale young man's face a stark contrast against his reddish beard. It wasn't a real beard, not according to the Sheriff. It was wispy, patchy, and immaculately trimmed. The young man probably spent as much time maintaining his facial hair as Bill's wife spent on her hair, and it wasn't all once piece -- it was shaped, sculpted almost. Some kind of city-kid bullshit, and that was Martin. A city kid.

Bill himself was an older man, nearing his mid-forties, dressed in his khaki duty uniform. His salt-and-pepper hair was kept neatly trimmed to a military length, and his worn face was clean shaven. His much younger wife Jenny had met Martin in her yoga class, and that was another reason Bill didn't trust him. In the sheriff's eyes any man taking a yoga class was likely either an outright pervert or a homosexual. The fact that his Jenny had tearfully confessed the affair to him had convinced him of the former, and he hadn't yet ruled out the latter. His deputy was of much the same mind, referring to Martin in private as "that big-city faggot" no matter how many times Bill chided him for it. It was important to maintain a professional workplace, and he did his best to discourage hate-speech. Boys will be boys -- especially good ol' boys.

Bill cast his rod again, silent while Martin stared at him. Without looking at the boy the sheriff bent and pulled his service revolver out of his tackle-box. He placed it onto the middle boat seat between them, where it sat, enormous and potent. Martin couldn't look away from it.

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