Gunpowder and Lead

County road 233, under my feet
Nothin' on this white rock but little ole me
I've got two miles till, he makes bail
And if I'm right we're headed straight for hell

Michelle winced, gunning the engine of her old Dodge pick-up, taking one hand off the steering wheel to feel the side of her face. “That sonbitch.” She muttered angrily. Other then the angry red, hand-print shaped bruise on her cheek, her face was deathly pale.

And way too calm.

Her mascara had run a little from the few tears she’d shed, streaking her pale complexion. Generally Michelle was tanned from her time spent outside, today however, there was nothing to bring the blood back to her face.

“Son of a bitch.” She repeated.

I'm goin' home, gonna load my shotgun
Wait by the door and light a cigarette
If he wants a fight well now he's got one
And he ain't seen me crazy yet
He slapped my face and he shook me like a rag doll
Don't that sound like a real man
I'm going to show him what a little girls made of
Gunpowder and lead

It was a Remington M870, a pump-action shotgun. Michelle sat on the edge of the bed, ignoring the frayed quilt that was tossed in a corner from the night before. How could last they’d been making love and today come to this?

It just didn’t make any sense.

That thought was brushed aside however when she had loaded her shotgun, setting the rest of the slugs aside, she wouldn’t need them.

Generally Michelle wasn’t a smoker, it was a habit she rarely indulged in, but today, she needed the nicotine. Shouldering the shotgun, she headed into the kitchen, plucking a cold six pack of Budweiser from the refrigerator and a pack of Chuck’s Pall Mall, menthol cigarettes from the freezer.

She made herself comfortable in her old, worn rocking chair. The Remington laid carefully over her legs and the now lit cigarette dangling from her pink lips.

The only sounds in the room were the squeaking of the chair as she rocked and the sound of a tab popping.

It's half past ten, another six pack in
And I can feel the rumble like a cold black wind
He pulls in the drive, the gravel flies
He dont know what's waiting here this time

Ten-thirty, eleven o'clock rolled round and Michelle was half way through her second six pack and finishing off the pack of Pall Malls. Her eyes narrowed when she heard a familiar rumble barreling down the road.

Chuck was home.

A load whining roar, followed by gravel hitting the window told her he was pissed.

Calmly, she set aside her can of beer and stood up, shouldering her shotgun.

I'm goin' home, gonna load my shotgun
Wait by the door and light a cigarette
If he wants a fight well now he's got one
And he ain't seen me crazy yet
He slapped my face and he shook me like a rag doll
Don't that sound like a real man
I'm going to show him what a little girls made of
Gunpowder and lead

A second later the door flew open. Heavy footsteps echoed like thunder around her as Chuck stepped through the doorway, his dark; angry eyes glaring at her. He took inventory of the shotgun aimed at him and snorted, upper lip curling in disdain. "You ain't got the balls to pull that damn trigger, Michelle. Now put it down before I do something even MORE crazy then just smack you."

One pump.

His fist is big but my gun's bigger
He'll find out when I pull the trigger

"I said put it down!" He barked, taking another step towards her.

Two pumps.

Chuck halted when he seen the cold determination on her face, coupled with the alcohol and his own stupidity and snarled. "You'll go to prison, bitch." He warned. "What they'll do to you in there will be a lot worse then anything I'd do out here."

"Only if they find your body." She said icily.

Three pumps.

I'm goin' home, gonna load my shotgun
Wait by the door and light a cigarette
If he wants a fight well now he's got one
And he ain't seen me crazy yet
He slapped my face and he shook me like a rag doll
Don't that sound like a real man
I'm going to show him what a little girls made of
Gunpowder and, Gunpowder and lead

Michelle leaned against the shovel, staring down at the freshly dug ground. Finishing off her last cigarette, she flicked it aside before patting down the dirt with the shovel's smooth, flat. If anybody asked, she'd just say this was where her new septic tank was going, they wanted to dig it up, they'd stop at the stench. She'd buried Chuck's worthless carcass with pig manure and what was left of her compost heap. It sure as hell smelled like a septic tank.

But then again, she mused as she headed inside, who the hell would care if someone as cruel and violent as Chuck Palumbo came up missing? Especially after all the hell he'd raised and the problems he'd caused.

Nobody.

He always said she was made of glass, fragile and easy to break.

Bullshit. She was filled with gunpowder and lead.

Gunpowder and Lead
Yeah