“That I could borrow a firearm like a cup of sugar sure felt neighborly. But in this case, it didn’t seem right. With one eye on the opossum playing dead, I passed the purse gun back to her.
I picked up my weapon of choice again. If I were a move gangster, I would’ve been the hit lady with a shovel at the back of my Cadillac. Channeling my rage, remembering the cuteness of my ducks, and the goose who would rest her head on my lap, I raised the shovel and came down on the opossum’s neck. After a few thrusts-and, I admit it, grunts-head separated from body. I had my bloody revenge.
Somehow, this wasn’t quite what I had imagined when I decided to expand my farm enterprise.
Only a few months ago, I had been signing for an air-hole riddled box clutched by a mailman, anticipating liberation from the meat market. And now the mangled bodies of some members of the poultry package lay in a heap. How far I had fallen.” (76)
“This act of tenderness strangely inflamed my rage against the opossum.
Forget the spike. I would place the opossum in the middle of Martin Luther King Jr. Way, where he would be run over repeatedly. I shoveled him up.
I walked toward the main street, the opossum balanced on the end of my shovel. For a moment, I had the illogical fear that he would come back to life. But no, no, the head was definitely separated from the body.
Before I heaved the carcass into the street, I leaned against the bust stop to think. I felt jittery and wide awake. A few shadowy figures stood on the corner a few blocks away. What would they have thought had they looked my way: a perspiring white lady carrying a mangled corpse in a bloody shovel down MLK at three in the morning?” (77)