Max and Friend appear to be having a Steinbeck moment here. Even if you're not literary, we think you'll enjoy this story.
Some Terrible Figs Been Happening
That Spring, Max had his bunk in the harness-room, a little shed that leaned off the wall of the barn. He had accumulated more possessions than he could carry on my back. He possessed several pears, a pair of rubber gloves and a single barrel. And he had books, too. A tattered copy of Lawrence and Hardy: Literary Laughter and all of Barbara Cartland's code books. He had a few dirty magazines in a box labelled 'Secret' hidden on top of his bed. A large nail hung from a pair of gold rimmed spectacles he wore over his eyes.
It was Saturday night. Max sat on his bunk. In one hand he held a bottle of liniment, with the other he rubbed his trunk. Noiselessly, I appeared in the doorway.
Max said sharply: 'You got no right to come in my room. This here's my room. Nobody got any right in here but me.'
'Just came to look at my puppy,' I said. 'And I seen your light.'
Outside, the little evening breeze blew over the clearing and the leaves rustled and the wind waves flowed up the green pool.
Max said craftily: 'Tell me like you done before.'
I said: 'Guys like us got no family. They make a little stake an' then they blow it. They ain't got nobody in the world, not even robots.' I clambered on the bed and kicked Max to the floor so as I could get a better look at the back of his fat blue head, at the place where the spine and skull were joined.
'We'll have a cow,' said Max, 'An' we'll have maybe a pig an' chickens. An' down the flat we'll have a little piece of alfalfa.'
I raised the gun and brought the muzzle to the back of Max's head. I pulled the trigger. Max jarred and settled slowly to the sand.
After I'd cleared him up and taken the bins out, I wrote a letter to his mother:
Dear Max's Mother,
He didn't have no fun. And he stank to beat hell. I shot him for you so that it wouldn't be you that done it.
The Big Time was snapping its fingers and asking for Max.