Fiction. TUSKALOOSA KILLS has the teeth of a saw. And the eyes of a wolf. It's a patchwork prose back-and-forth—it's a heady screwloose brew of marblemouth and jughead musings upon a famous football town with a clandestine literary history. TUSKALOOSA KILLS is a soapbox upon which McWaters and Smith howl of how humans make community and community unmakes humans. Think threads and scraps, interlaced and unraveling: how a yarn isn't bellyached from one voice but through a spice-cabinet of voices—heard, misheard, remembered, misremembered, and echoing for one more round.