There was suffering all around, with tramp villages cropping up on the outskirts of town. Storefronts boarded up. But we were inured to the trials and tribulations of our less fortunate townfolk in our paper plantation house. We always had fresh fish to hang in the manse's many showers. This practice was viewed as decadent to some who would oft remind us that a carp dangling in the 95* heat of a Georgian summer will soon fester and rot. But we did it to let the aroma waft through the estate, letting all know that we had been spared by His Heavenly Grace the misfortunes of the rest of the nation.

To this day, the cloying scent of honeysuckle and roadkill evokes memories of balmy summers spent scrying bumfights in the streets from under the gables of my bedroom and the lovely sounds of hogs being slaughtered on the veranda.

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Besides it's how that shit gets done, city boy.

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