This is why I don't write fiction

Jimmy woefully stroked his mullet as he glared at the overwrought "Linda" scrawled across his forearm. He thought back to that fateful August day. Was it the heat or the 27 Pabst Blue Ribbons that somehow made it seem like a good idea? He knew his cousin Willy Ray wouldn't take care of her they way he could.... his precious Ann-Margaret.... the way her shiny red paint glistened in the sun. The way her pleather seats smelled. The way her eight-track needed a good whack before it would play his bitchin tunes. The way the exhaust pipe fit his dick just right. Ah, a true gem. He had sold Ann-Margaret to Willy Ray hoping that he'd have enough cash to show Linda just how much he cared, and that he was in this for the long haul. She was so happy when she first saw it that she gave him a blow job right there on the spot, in the tattoo parlor parking lot, despite the old folks home across the street having "outside time" right in the middle of it. That's when he knew she was truly his. They were married 2 months later, even though she was visibly pregnant at the time. He didn't care, though. Jose had already gone back to Mexico to avoid his trial, so it wasn't like he was coming back any time soon.

But here he was, no car and no woman. That whore Linda had done run off with his uncle Earl right after the honeymoon and Willy Ray had taken Ann-Margaret to the lake and left her there.... at the bottom of the lake. So now it was just Jimmy, his tattoo, and a shiny new case of PBR. He hated that damn tattoo.