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Jesus wearing an overcoat and a silver metal of a wolf around his neck and nothing else, enjoying a large pretzel, wishing for mustard and a cold sip of beer, crosses the street in the middle of Havre, Montana. He looks faraway into the snow peaks of mountains and sees shades of pale blues streaking across the cloudless skies. The thunder of a late Amtrak train passing through town makes him blink once. He opens his eyes and sees a new red Ford pickup truck break right in front of the tip of his knees. The loud horn hurts his ears but he continues smacking his lips, savoring the tiny grains of pretzel salt. The self satisfaction makes him hum an old native tune, his grandfather used to sing to him as a small child.
A young rancher wearing black snake skinned boots steps out of his shiney red truck and adjusts his black ten gallon hat while putting his tongue between his cheek and gum and frowning from the strong sting of bitterness released from a lopsided wad of strong,2nd grade chewing tobacco.
He walks towards Jesus and yells, “Hey freak get yer red ass outta the street.”
Jesus smiles and slowly raises his left hand and holds up his fist and gives the rancher the Indian hi sign.
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