Shotgun John by James L. Bruner
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While the limbs of the weathered apple tree held us firmly in place we each plucked an apple and let the cradle of comfort pull conversation from once silent thoughts. I began with the story of Shotgun John as my daughter closed her eyes and rested firmly amongst the limbs with mottled rays of sunlight dancing about her face. Intently she listened while munching on a freshly picked apple.

John got his nickname just like every other urban legend that had been passed down through the years with bits and pieces omitted and a spattering of color added here and there for an evolving story. And like any artists canvas the rendering of Shotgun John grew far and wide enough to spread fear amongst the locals who spoke quickly but softly about the man in the dilapidated old shack.

It all started many years ago when a group of young fishermen decided to investigate the small spring-fed stream that meandered through John’s property leading the young men right past John’s front door. Chaos ensued as John appeared on the old wooden porch, shotgun in hand, touching off shells like a crazed madman protecting his domain before going out in a hail of bullets and fallen glory. At least that’s how the legend was told and the exact reason why nobody dared set foot on John’s land much less ever think about talking with him. After all who can speak to a red-eyed-demon toting a shotgun who had enough swampy property to dispose of just about anything he didn’t want found. I don’t know if it was the fact that I didn’t believe the stories or I found that John sounded a lot like myself and just desired some peace and quiet. Either way I decided to find out since I was also interested in this cool deep stream that peaked my interest of some native brook trout fishing.

A short drive of two miles and I was pulling into John’s driveway which is a sloping dirt road leading directly to his small shack which was in desperate need of repairs. Moss grew heavy on the sagging roof and the scent of decaying forest hung thick in the air. I couldn’t help but feel a bit apprehensive as the stories of old crept into my mind. As I approached his shack I took note of the porch which was missing as many boards as those that were still visibly rotting away. Each had that slippery sheen that lends itself to a constant state of denial and upkeep. I noticed a bottle of vodka setting on the porch that had lost half a battle to someone who took an adequate indulgence in the flavorful notes of the crystal liquid. For reasons unknown, not being a drinker, I hefted the bottle of vodka and concentrated on the foreign label that appeared to be imported from Russia. It was at that moment when a hulking man in a tattered white t-shirt appeared in the doorway with a commanding voice asking who the hell I was.

For a moment I felt hollow as his voice echoed through the woods. My feet, seemingly glued to the ground, would have been of little use if the demon decided to wield that legendary shotgun in my direction. At a loss for words I simply turned the bottle of vodka towards him and pointed to the label while mustering the strength to speak that this must indeed be some superior sipping material. John swung in one motion grabbing the bottle from my hands as he turned and disappeared back inside his shack without saying a word. My senses came alive yet I hesitated to speak as I focused on the ruckus that was now taking place inside the shack beyond my curious eyeballs. Honestly, thinking back, I was listening for anything that sounded like a gun loading. Instead, John appeared back in the doorway with two dusty glasses and a brand new bottle of vodka. Without speaking a word John found a solid board on the porch and poured a sip into each glass and set the bottle down. Although I felt somewhat obliged I simply pushed mine to the side with a No Thanks. John disappeared back inside his shack and I figured my rejection of the drink was probably received as an insult.

My ears once again perked up as more noise reverberated from the shack and John appeared back on the porch with two big cigars that were wrapped in a gold foil that also looked imported. It was at that point, with the sweet scent of the stogies hovering in the air while overlooking the little stream, that I introduced myself.

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