"The Brisket King" sat in the center of the
d myself. The wood inside was the heart of it all. Rare mesquite and post oak, sourced by my father
moker like a living thing. I talked to it
it and felt nothi
ho had always looked at me with open a
ady, Jocelyn. It'
ice flat. "Get the do
Moving it where? To th
he fire pi
opped. "What
t do
d. The big, circular fire pit, usually used fo
wn by the commotion. His f
in God' s name
ng" and began pulling out the precious, seasoned wood. The wo
sed them into the
perfume that was a mix of mesquite, oak, and my own es
n unbolting the custom parts. The steel plates groaned as I pried them apart.
my arm. His gri
nd? That' s your entry!
anic in it. A deep, barely concealed pani
oked him straight in the ey
with it. The des
e, leaving him standing there amidst
ete this year," I call
the confirmation I needed. My destruction of the smoker
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