fter her third divorce, Dianne swore she’d never marry again. Then, at the gun show, she met Luther.

Luther is different, thought Dianne. Like her, he had suffered a gauntlet of disastrous marriages all due to his misfortune of marrying three crazy broads. I can so relate to that, thought Dianne. There was Dwayne the psychopathic alcoholic who turned violent when drunk and would beat her senseless and try to set the trailer on fire. There was Roger the Pimp who couldn’t keep a job longer than a week, and once tried to get Dianne to prostitute herself so he could make his truck payment. And there was Charlie, sweet, innocent Charlie, who spent more time at the county jail for drunk driving, petty theft, disturbing the peace, and drug charges than he’d ever spent in one place in his life.

But Luther was different. There was an undefined gentleness in him just below his rough exterior. Dianne prided herself in her ability to detect subtle goodness in people and like a good oil company geologist she detected an abundance in Luther, just below the bedrock. True, he had had some trouble with the law and sustaining long-term relationships, but she was confident that she could change him. Probably all he needed was someone who truly cared about him and truly respected who he was and did not infringe upon his space. Dianne was confident she could succeed where those other women had failed. It would just take effort on both their parts. Nothing good in this life is easy, and that especially includes quality, long-lasting relationships.

The signs were all positive. By moving into the duplex with her, Dianne sensed he was serious about a commitment. Another positive sign was that he brought even his most cherished possessions, including his six pairs of jeans, his four pairs of boots, his 30-foot long boa constrictor and his 24-piece prize gun collection.

Dianne was the happiest she’d been in years.

uther was tickled too. He had his ups and downs personalitywise, but presently he was very much up. And why not? He had a place to stay, a place to park his truck. All rent-free. Of course it was just be a matter of time before--what was her name? Dianne--started hinting around for him to pay his share of the rent, electricity, telephone, cable, water and sewer. But he could put her off for a couple of months anyway. But what did he really think about—what was her name? Dianne. Well, she seemed kind of desperate. He liked that in a woman. So desperate she’d put up with almost any kind of shit. She was also a three-time loser. That was good too. As far as looks went, well, he’d had better. A lot better. On the other hand she definitely had some things going for her. No kids. A nice duplex. A ’95 T-Bird. A job at the flour mill. Yep, things were definitely looking up, for the first time since he’d gotten laid off from the tire center. Okay, not actually laid off. Fired would be the more accurate term. He’d missed too many days, arrived too late, too often. But what did he care? It was a lousy, dirty, lowlife job. Everything he owned covered in wheel grease, the muck permanently embedded in the cracks of his skin on his face and hands. That’s all right. He wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. One thing was certain, this time he’d take his time before he jumped at any old job. He’d scout around for a while. Long as what’s her name--Dianne, (Why the hell couldn’t he remember her name? Dianne. Di-anne. Like Princess Diana, only a lot different). Anyway, he figured he’d shack up with Dianne for awhile. At least till she started to get bitchy--then he’d move on. He figured he had a month, two at the most, before she’d start getting bitchy: When you gonna get a job? You just gonna lay around the house drinking beer and watching TV all day while I’m out busting my butt at the mill? You didn’t have to be married to a woman before she turned into a nag.

On the other hand, what if he wanted to make this one work? What if he decided to put some effort into this relationship? Get a job, quit boozing, treat her right? They might even get married someday. Why not? He wasn’t anxious about having a family. He already had . . . two kids. The girl, somebody told him, had got herself knocked up and she was only sixteen. Or was she fifteen? Didn’t matter. Her life’s ruined anyway. The boy, Junior, he wondered what that little shit was up to. No good, probably. No, he had enough with kids. Just a pack of trouble. It was just too bad she wasn’t a little easier on the eyes, no so beat-down looking. Could use some new teeth too. Oh well, beggers can’t be choosers. The older he got the harder it was to find a good woman to take him in. The younger ones, they just weren’t interested in an old dog like him anymore. Unless you had something going for you like money or a nice truck or a big house. And he didn’t have a single one of those things. Yessir, maybe it was time to settle down. Sure it’d be tough to leave off seeing his old buddies. Luther lifted his head and looked up at the purple veiny nose of Red the bartender. "What the hell do you think, Red. You think I ought to settle down?"

"Sure. What the hell do I care?" Red said, a look of unconcern smothering his purple face.

You probably want to know about the guns. What the guns, the gun show and the boa constrictor and Luther’s two kids have to do with this fairy tale romance. It’s like this:

Nothing.

f this were a tightly plotted story all these things would come together nicely in the end somehow. Something like this:

It was hot, humid July and Luther’s two kids were visiting for the summer. That night while they slept on the living room floor under the window air-conditioner, the boa constrictor, half-starved and hungry for a rat, used its big snout to knock the lid off the aquarium where it lived and dropped to the floor where it found Junior asleep near the television. The boa quickly and quietly wrapped itself around the young boy and constricted its muscles till it had succeeded nicely in suffocating the life out of the boy. Junior was too large for the snake to eat so it left the limp and breathless body and crawled under the sofa where it went to sleep.

The next morning Luther and Dianne were awakened by the screams of the pregnant sixteen-year-old girl. "Luther! Oh my God! Luther! He’s dead. Junior’s dead!" The girl screamed and Dianne cried. Luther called an ambulance and found the snake and took it out back and shot it repeatedly with a twenty-two. The police took away what was left of the snake for evidence. They weren’t happy that Luther had blown away the snake. Let’s see your permits for these weapons, a cop said. Luther had permits for some of them, but not all. They took him down to the jail, questioned him, and released him four hours later. He went back to Dianne and his daughter and held them and told them he loved them and for the first time in their lives they believed he might really mean it.

Instead, what happed was this: Ninety-two days later, tired of putting up with Luther’s drunken beatings and surreal threats and tired of him living off her and not even looking for a job, Dianne locked him out the duplex. That evening Luther finding himself locked out, kicked the door down, claiming all he wanted were his snake and guns. Dianne told him the guns were out back in the shed.

They’ll get rusty out there, you dumb bitch! Luther said, slapping her a good one and storming out the back door. Dianne called the police. She told the police that Luther had kicked her door down and beat her and that he had several guns. When the two young adrenaline-pumped cops arrived they found Luther in the shed with an armful of pistols, revolvers, and shotguns. Drop the guns! the cops shouted. They were aiming their service revolvers at an imaginary target right between his thick furry eyebrows.

What for? Luther said. I got permits for these.

Drop the guns or we’ll shoot! one of the cops cried. Luther thought he couldn’t be more than twenty-four years old, a punk kid.

The cops were really ready to shoot. It was a small town. They didn’t get a chance like this very often. Last warning, the cops cried. Drop the guns now!

What are you going to do, shoot me? Luther said. Huh? You going to shoot me, big man?

Drop the guns and step away from the shed!

You ain’t got the balls! You’re just punk kids! Go ahead. Shoot me!

Dianne opened the screen door and stepped out on the back porch hugging herself tightly like women do when horrible things are happening. Don’t hurt him! she cried. I love him! Please! Don’t hurt him!

At this the cops began to lose heart. Please put the guns down, sir. We’re asking you nicely.

Don’t shoot him! Dianne wailed. She almost collapsed on the porch.

Please? Did you say, please? Luther said. Now that’s more like it. How about pretty please?

The cops exchanged glances. Their arms were getting tired. Now they just wanted to get this over and go back to the station and make some coffee and file their reports. Okay. Pretty please.

You put yours’ down first.

We can’t do that, sir.

Sir? Did you hear that, Honey? he called to Dianne. Put yours’ down first.

Against regulations, sir.

Luther laughed. I knew that. I was just testing you. Okay, I’m putting the guns down.

Squatting slowly he set the guns on the dusty shed floor and raised his hands and like the dawn of a new era the cops pounced.