Who Is Missy?

Missy wasn’t looking for salvation. She was just trying to get a dog to stop vomiting aluminum. That dog turned out to be Ignition – Uncle Joe’s ghost-hound. She patched him up, no questions asked, and the gang never forgot it. Next thing she knew, she was checking the lungs of a raccoon named Clyde and getting invited to a sermon where every hymn ended with recoil.

Originally a big city vet with a soft voice and steady hands, Missy found herself burned out by barking poodles and overbearing yuppies. The moment she squeezed a 9mm at an open range and felt that metallic kick, something changed. Something clicked. Within a year, her Yelp reviews mentioned “surgical hands and deadeye skills” in the same breath.

She joined the Church of the Carburetor not for faith – but for fire. She now carries her sidearm under her scrubs, bakes communion bread between surgeries, and teaches trigger discipline to deacons on Thursdays. Reverend Diesel considers her a “disciple with aim,” and Bubba once gave her a vest that reads “Saint of Second Shots.”

Missy isn’t in the Redneck Gang, but she’s in the loop. Cletus occasionally drops by her clinic with “sick goats” that smell like meth labs. Granny sent her a pie once – and a contract. She didn’t sign it. But she showed up anyway, Glock clean, eyes clearer.

Her clinic, “Paws & Pistons,” sits between a tire shop and a bait shed. Inside: dogs, cats, chickens, and a locked drawer labeled “For Sunday Only.” She never charges the church. She just asks them to clean up the brass after sermons.

And if you ask her how she got so damn good? She’ll smile, blow powder off her fingers, and say: “Practice. And heartworms.”

Legacy

Missy started out as a punchline – boots two sizes off and targets full of holes.
Today, she can drop a possum at fifty yards and still save its kidney.

She’s proof that you can wear pink, save lives, and still have the steadiest trigger in three counties. She ain’t a killer. But don’t corner her.
Because Missy shoots last. And best.