The Golden Boy's Hanging

Now here's where it gets biblical. I rounded the corner and my blood turned to ice water.

A golden statue swung from my barn rafters, creaking in the wind like some unholy

pendulum. But it wasn't just any statue. It was my boy—Totally Fucking Mexico—his

body coated head to toe in stolen gold, frozen in death, turned into a monument

of somebody else's greed. My son. My blood. Hanging there like

a goddamn trophy. I didn't ask who did it. Didn't need to. The Schlägers' message

was clear as mountain water—they'd come for what mattered most. I stood there in

that yard, Louretta's sobs echoing behind me, staring at my golden boy swaying in the