the light of the sealedbeam cut over the field he was lying prone upon a watermelon with his overalls about his knees. The beam swept past, stopped, returned to fix upon his alabaster nates looming moonlike out of the dark. He rose vertically, pale, weightless, like some grim tellurian wraith, up over the violated fruit with arms horrible and off across the fields hauling wildly at the folds of old rank denim that hobbled him. Hold it, a voice called.
At one with his surrounding indeed! And having his way with the watermelon...country hijinx and buffoonery of the highest order: hold it! And caught with his pants down.
Did I say Cormac is funny too? Knew something was coming... Oh gosh, that was unintentional .
