Old Man Whitherspoon

Old Man Whitherspoon lived by himself in old run-down Victorian river house, which was almost as old as he was. He sat in his rocker outside on his porch, clutching his rifle with his coarse, clammy hands. His beady eyes gazed into the river banks, while he drifts into memories and past event sin his life. His face worn and aged, with no hair on his head or tooth in his mouth. A straw of grass rests between his lips, bending and twirling by the wind. Whitherspoon just sat there n his porch day in and day out, waiting to shoot anybody and everybody that dare set foot on his property. He has no use for the usual pleasures and delights. There was no TV or radio in his house, nor a computer. Most of it is just smut anyways. He just sings to himself and rock in his chair. The floor boards under him creak and squeak as he rocks, but he welcomes the noise, because it the only voice he hears all day. Old Man Whitherspoon never really leaves his house except to go to the corner store to buy necessities. His wordrobe hasn't had an new additions in the last 30 years. Actually, there might not even be a shirt in his closet that isn't long sleeve and plaid. Whitherspoon cooks for himself, but that still isn't often enough. None of his pants fit him because he is so skinny. All the people who even know who he is just thinks that he is just waiting to die, but no one would dare try to help him in anyway, unless they like having a gun pointed at them. Old Man Whitherspoon just rocks back 'n forth singing his songs, holding his gun tightly, and smiling his toothless smile.