"I've had about ah-nuff ah this shit," said Farmer Frank, sitting in his auto-piloted combine. "Corn's down. Bean's down. I cain' make money like 'is."
Sundown crept like growing shadows, but Frank still had a long night ahead of him. He needed to trudge on, head to the farm, and hope that drivers would have enough sense in their heads to share the road.
"An' the wife's be'n harpin' 'bout sumthin'." Frank scratched the three-day stubble along his cheek and under his chin. "Don' know how she 'spects me to do ev'rythin' when I spen' all day out in th' fields."
His radio sputtered out some Hank Williams, and he turned up the volume in his air-conditioned cabin.
"Wond'r what she cook'd for dinner," he said. "A man's gotta eat."
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