 
### Dancers

### & Other Short Stories

J. R. Oneal

Copyright 2015 J. R. Oneal

Smashwords Edition.

### TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dancers

Rocking at the Store

Cross Country

Hootchie Cootchie

Plum Branch Wedding

Wild Woman from Borneo

Disaster at the Old Wash Hole

The Question

Civics Lesson

The Fight

About The Author

### DANCERS

Fiona stared out the window at the park across the street, watching people walking their dogs underneath the streetlamps. She turned up what was left of a gin and tonic and finished it off; then walked across the room to the bar and mixed another.

"You want anything, Snap boy?" she asked.

"No, I'm good. Still working on this beer."

"I'm bored," she said as she crossed the room and flopped down on the couch. She stretched her arms over her head and said, "I want to do something."

I ignored her as I tried to change channels on the TV. I pointed, clicked, tried again, and then slapped the remote. Batteries were probably about dead. Finally, the channel changed and I clicked again. Thomas Magnum, PI crept stealthily along the beach advancing on some bad guy. I clicked again. Gray static this time.

"What's that noise?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

Fiona's ears perked up as she heard a furious rustling sound coming from the kitchen.

"That had better not be what I think it is," she said as she leapt from the couch and crossed the living room in three long strides.

"Biscuit," she shouted. "Get off of that trash bag." Fiona stomped her foot on the linoleum floor trying to get the dog's attention. The rustling continued. A yelp came from the kitchen followed by growling and snarling as Fiona tried to pull him off the plastic bag. Then more thrashing. I heard a loud snap as Fiona finally attached the leash to Biscuit's collar.

A minute later she emerged from the kitchen, short blonde hair in disarray, wearing a too small and faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt, pink drawers, and old rubber flip flops. She was dragging a small black bundle of fur struggling for all it was worth. The dog's toenails dug into the hardwood floor making an intolerable scraping sound as she tugged at the leash. She pulled him to the back door, opened it, unsnapped the leash and pushed him outside into the night.

"You stay out there until you can calm down," she yelled.

From the kitchen, I heard a string of curse words followed by the sound of cans, bottles, paper, and other items being stuffed into a new plastic bag. Fiona went outside and put the bag into a large garbage bin. A couple of minutes later she came back in and headed down the hallway to the bathroom with those damned flip flops slapping the floor and cursing underneath her breath.

Biscuit was a neurotic and sexually obsessed Pekingese that would hump anything in sight. He was especially fond of trash bags. When I first encountered him, I thought he was cute, frisky, and playful. Over time I grew to despise the dog. His dark brown eyes looked at me like I was a lesser being and I was convinced that his soul had prowled the netherworld before he was sent to make my life miserable. Now, don't get me wrong. I love dogs. Just not this one. It was kind of like meeting a beautiful woman only to find that she had a personality that was rotten to the core. I pined for the day when Biscuit would disappear, never to return. In fact, I often fantasized about taking matters into my own hands.

"You need to get that dog fixed, or put down," I said.

She yelled from the bathroom, "I'll get you fixed. Or maybe put down. I know some people who wouldn't think twice about it and they don't charge much."

I took a sip from the Coors bottle and picked up an old newspaper. I flipped the pages, scanning the same articles I had read a dozen times. I put it back on the end table.

"I'm still bored," she yelled like a petulant child.

"So what? It's almost ten o'clock," I replied.

"I want to go out."

For the tenth time, that day, I wondered how I had become the roommate of a crazy woman. Not just funny crazy, but seriously insane - at least from my point of view. Her personality was like a dark shadow that changed with the wind. Sometimes playful and full of fun, other times full of spite and hatred. The alcohol abuse did not help things. Each day seemed to reveal a new version of herself. Most of the time the changes were minor, but I had seen some things that I'd rather not remember. I wondered how many personalities she might have. We got along OK but there were times when I felt a vague unease. Something that told me to move on.

She was pretty selfish for the most part. Her needs and desires always took priority over everything else, especially the desire to be rich. She had an obsession with money and celebrity. But there were times that she could be very giving. A few months ago when I needed a place to stay for a few days she moved me into her house with barely a second thought. Those few days had become a couple of weeks, then a month, and now almost seven months. Each time I was ready to move she had found a reason that I should stay.

Staying was easy. I liked the small house. It was comfortable, close to work, and easy to maintain. I could stay there forever if it weren't for Fiona and Biscuit. On Fiona's bad days, she and Biscuit seemed almost mirror images of one another.

"I'm serious," she said, coming back down the hall. A second later she was standing in front of me, hands on her bony hips, looking down at me with derision. "I'm bored. I want to go out."

"You need to put some clothes on, woman," I said.

"I will when we go out."

I realized that this was going to be another one of those nights where there would be no rest for me. When she wanted to do something, she wouldn't let it go.

Finally I gave in. I'll fix her Little Red Wagon, I thought with a devilish smirk. "I saw a little night club just north of town the other day. Dancers, I believe it was called. Let's go over there."

"Great," she said. "I'll get ready."

A small voice inside my head said, "You should be ashamed of yourself."

I got up, stuck my bare feet into black loafers and put on a clean long sleeve blue shirt. I left the tail out and rolled the sleeves up a couple of turns. No need getting too spiffed up. I looked in the mirror. For a middle aged man that looked like a large version of Captain Kangaroo, I didn't look too bad. Fiona stuck her head in the door to my room and asked, "You ready to go or not?"

She dressed and primped up quicker than any woman I had ever met. I looked up and saw her slender frame in tight jeans, high heels, and a spaghetti strap top. She was no classic beauty, not by any stretch of the imagination. But she did have that something that kept men pawing the ground whenever she was around. The women just glared, crossed their arms over their chest, and wondered, "What the hell's she got that I ain't got."

She was a notorious flirt and was an expert when it came to trolling a nightclub. Havoc followed in her wake. Men fought with other men, their wives, and girlfriends over her. Women's hackles would rise and their backs would arch when Fiona gave their husbands or boyfriends a look that lasted a second too long, especially if the men didn't turn away quickly enough. She created a carnival-like atmosphere wherever she went and it was fun to watch when you knew what was going to happen.

Fiona took deep pride in seducing a man, especially if that man had money or was a hotshot of some type. If it turned out that she liked him and his pockets were deep enough she would establish a relationship with him. The relationship lasted until she had rooked as much money as possible from the unsuspecting victim. Then she would cut him loose. Sometimes it was quick and easy, other times not so much. Rarely was only one man involved in her web of deceit at the same time.

Fiona was equally at home with men from both ends of the social and economic spectrum. Some were just playthings, others were seen as sources of income or as a way for her to gain status. Occasionally a lawyer or politician lost his way and fell into her trap.

Flower delivery was a routine event around her house. She would draw a man in and then the delivery of roses would begin. I found myself on a first name basis with every flower deliveryman in the city. At times, the house would look and smell like a damned funeral parlor.

Oh yes, the birthdays. When a prospective donor to her financial well being would ask why she was out on the town or celebrating, the answer was always the same. It's my birthday. This would always guarantee a present within a few days. Men who stayed around for any length of time seemed to overlook the fact that she had multiple birthdays each year. Need new tires for the car? It's my birthday. Can't pay the power bill? It's my birthday. And woe be unto the poor bastard who showed up with an inexpensive present.

Few people were ever allowed behind the curtain to watch a master manipulator and con artist at work. Why was I able to see this? I have no idea really. I had no money. I was not particularly good looking, and I was a horse's ass at times. Maybe it was because her charm had little effect on me or maybe it because I didn't care one way or the other.

My inner voice nagged at me. I wondered if I had made a mistake suggesting Dancer's.

A few minutes later I fired up my '65 Buick Wildcat and listened to it's throaty rumble with satisfaction. I gunned the engine just a bit. Fiona crossed the yard in a trot afraid that I might leave without her. It wouldn't be the first time. She got in and I eased the floor shift into first gear, then pulled away from the curb. I wound through the downtown streets trying to keep the 'Cat under control. We were flying low when we hit the Interstate. Finally, I was in the moment. Dancers was only a few minutes away.

*****************

I stopped the 'Cat at the edge of the dirt parking lot, making sure we could not get blocked in. We sat there for a minute eyeing the dilapidated building and deciding whether or not to stay. Dancers was not just any juke joint, it was a low rent dive in a really rough neighborhood. I wondered what kind of clientele frequented this place. I suspected, correctly, that they were of the highly unsavory variety.

The concrete block building was old and decaying. Neon lights flashed and flickered from the dirty front windows. There were woods surrounding Dancer's on the back and both sides. They were thick and foreboding. No way in hell I would go back there. I was having second thoughts about the wisdom of coming here and was about to suggest that we leave, when Fiona opened the door and got out.

"Come on, Snap. We ain't got time to just sit here looking."

I got out and followed her, wondering what we were in for. Several girls, their features hidden by the shadows and flashing lights, hung around the entrance. They looked at us with suspicion as we crossed the parking lot.

"They look like your kind of women, Snap," laughed Fiona.

"Maybe if I were blind," I replied.

"What's your name, big boy?" asked one of the girls as we passed.

Fiona bristled and said, "It's none of your damned business. This is my man."

The girl backed down and we walked inside to a small alcove where we both paid our two dollar cover fees. The grizzled looking character sitting behind the counter took our money and stamped our hands with a mark only visible under a black light. "Go on in," he growled.

We parted the worn red curtains and went through the next door to the main club area. I swiveled my head and took in the long main bar, another small bar in the back, an empty stage where a band played on weekends, and a dance floor. Cheap tables and chairs filled the rest of the room. Somehow, it looked bigger inside. I guessed that thirty to forty people were there now.

Fiona eyed several "cowboys" at the long bar and said, "I kinda like the looks of that bunch. I'll see you later."

She walked toward the bar without going directly to the group of men. I watched as she began trolling. She added a little strut to her walk but not too much. Just enough to whet their appetites.

I headed to the smaller bar and sat down on the end stool, nodding to the only other guy there. I pointed to the Coors handle and the bartender drew me a beer. I turned around, leaned back against the bar and took a sip of cold beer. I looked across the room and watched Fiona as she talked to a tall, lanky, rough looking guy. No need to keep checking on her, I thought. Let's see what I can find for myself.

I began surveying the immediate area and noticed a few fairly attractive women sitting at tables around the edge of the dance floor. One, a young platinum blonde sitting with a couple of other women caught my attention. I doubted she was half my age and I suspected I was a little old for her. I kept looking.

A slow song finished up and a handful of dancers left the floor, returning to their tables. I found myself focusing on the young blonde. After a few minutes, I caught her eye and a slight smile played across her lips. I looked away. For a couple of minutes, we played a game of eye tag. It was taking me a few minutes to work up enough nerve to approach her. Finally, she pushed back from the table and I saw her heading in my direction. Was it intentional that she flashed me as she stood up? Probably not, I thought. After all, she was wearing a very short skirt. She must be on her way to the restroom. I took a sip of beer and looked away.

A second later I felt someone brush against my side and turned to see the young blonde standing beside me. Up close she looked like a raccoon. I had never in my life seen so much eye makeup, but still....

"What's your name?" she asked playfully.

"Snap McCracken," I replied.

"Well Snap McCracken, I'm Lorene but my friends call my Honey Bear. Want to dance?"

"I guess so," I said. How the hell could I say no?

I slipped off the bar stool and we walked to the juke box in the corner. I scanned the box and found the song I was looking for. I dropped a quarter in the slot, pressed a couple of buttons, and waited.

A heavy blues bass began to thump. I stood in one spot with my head down, swaying until I was mesmerized by the hypnotic groove of the bass guitar. The lead guitarist ran his metal slide up the neck and wavered over the high E. The most unsanitary sound in the world of music, but it pleased me.

Honey Bear stood in the middle of the dance floor and began to shimmy slightly to the beat. She crooked her finger and motioned me forward. Filled with anticipation, I slow stepped my way toward the nubile nymph in the short black mini-dress.

Koko Taylor's heavy, gravel filled, voice filled the room. "Let the juke joint jump, clap your hands, shake your rump..."

True to my nickname I raised both hands and snapped my fingers loudly. I turned slightly to the left and clapped my hands. Another slight left turn and I shook my rump. Honey Bear mirrored my movements exactly except she slapped her rump at the end.

How could I have hooked up with such a sexy woman, I wondered? My grandfather once told me that the sun would shine on every dog's ass one day. Well, I was feeling the sunshine tonight.

I moved in and Honey Bear fell into my arms in a carefree embrace. I pushed off with my left foot and began a slow drag. We shifted back and forth for a moment then I twirled her around and dipped to the floor. We came up with her knee just inside mine. Electricity flowed between us when we touched. We moved forward, then back again. Honey Bear dropped to the floor striking a sensual but disinterested looking pose. I circled around her with an easy blues step much like an Indian doing a rain dance. I swooped in and lifted her to her feet, then circled behind her and wrapped my arm around her waist with my hand resting lightly on her belly. I could feel my nature rising.

The music began to fade away and I released Honey Bear. As we started back to the bar, she said "I want to dance again. I'll pick the song."

"Well, OK," I said. I accompanied her to the juke box and she selected a slow country song. Within seconds her arms were tight around my neck as we shifted back and forth in one spot. I could feel her breath on my cheek and then her lips as they touched my ear.

"My mama sure does like you," she said softly.

"Uh-huh," I replied before my mind processed what she had said. I recoiled. "What?" I asked. "What's that you say?"

"My mama sure does like you. That's her sitting at my table. She wants to meet you."

My guts roiled as I realized I had been taken. I glanced at the table and saw a small red faced head connected to an oversized body by a goozle that would make a Thanksgiving turkey proud. I stepped back, but continued the dance. My mind raced as I tried to figure a graceful way out of this dilemma. The rest of the dance was pure hell. I moved stiffly, like a robot.

Finally, the dance ended and I stepped away from Honey Bear. "I've got to hit the head," I said, which was indeed a true fact. My bowels felt a little loose.

"Ok, but don't take too long."

She could feel my discomfort and agitation. I thanked her for the dance and walked toward a restroom sign. I didn't look back. I eyed the room to plan my escape route. As I approached the restroom area I joined a long line waiting to get in.

"What's taking so long?" I asked a man in front of me.

"Ladies room is out of order. We're working with a one-holer tonight."

That was OK with me. It gave me more time to formulate my plan. I scanned the bar area and saw Fiona perched on a bar stool, her head slightly down, with her hands clasped gently in her lap. A group of guys stood around listening to her. They appeared confused.

I decided that I could get out of the restroom, back around the wall and disappear into the crowd. I could grab Fiona and we could bolt for the door. I glanced across the dance floor and saw Honey Bear and her mother. They both grinned and waved. I waved back half-heartedly.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. I was hesitant to turn around. What if it were another trap? I felt the tap again. Slowly, I turned and found a young man, almost a boy really, in western attire. He didn't appear to be much of a threat.

"What?" I asked.

"You with that girl over there at the bar? I saw you two come in together." He motioned toward Fiona.

"No. We just came here together. We're not a couple or anything like that," I replied.

"I was just wondering if it was alright if I asked her out. Do you think she'd go out with me?"

I looked the kid over - he was short, with long greasy black hair, long Elvis like sideburns and a Fu Manchu mustache. He held a cowboy hat at this side. I knew he was not her type, but said, "Sure. I don't see why not."

The line seemed to be barely moving. I leaned out and looked ahead. A girl near the head of the line stepped in front of the guy waiting at the door and beat on it loudly. She yelled, "Come on out of there Bruce. What are you doing in there?"

A large lumberjack looking guy opened the door, waved his hand in front of his nose, and said loudly, "Whew. I wouldn't go in there if I were you."

A groan emitted from the line and it moved forward slowly.

"Well, how do you understand what she's saying?"

I turned and asked, "What?"

"How do you understand what she's saying? Her being from France and all. None of us can understand a word of French."

I glanced at the bar and realized that Fiona was in full-on game mode. No wonder the men around her seemed confused.

"Well, I know a few words of French and she knows a little English. We manage to get by," I said. I knew for a fact that she knew no French but she could mimic anything pretty well.

Fiona had a knack for the game. I could never tell if it was her clever gift for manipulation or if one of her dark personalities had surfaced that drove her game-on behavior. I laughed to myself as I thought of the winter night when the gas went out at her house. A repairman was called to resolve the problem. Fiona greeted him at the front door without so much as a word. Her hair looked as though it had not been combed in a week. She was dressed in mismatched sweats that were much too tight, especially in the nether regions. Her feet were graced by one red sock, one yellow one, and two mismatched bedroom slippers. She held a comedy-tragedy theatre mask mounted on a stick in front of her face as she followed the repairman around the house, peering over his shoulder as if inspecting his work. The man was obviously distracted and unnerved, but I assured him that everything was OK. There was nothing to be gained by manipulating this guy. I had to wonder if a another personality had been at work that night. When I mentioned this to her the next day, she acted as if she had no idea what I was talking about.

The restroom line at the club moved slowly. A few moments passed and the young man asked, "What's a doctor doing in a place like this anyway?"

For a moment, I questioned my wisdom and then fell into the game myself. "Well, she's not a real doctor. Not yet anyway. I'll bet you would like for her to examine you," I said.

He grinned. We both looked in her direction.

"You'd best get on over there and ask her out before one of those ugly dudes beat you to her," I said.

"You might be right. Thanks for the advice."

He dropped out of the line and headed toward the bar. I glanced over at Honey Bear's table. They were still there with those stupid looks on their faces. Man, I felt like an idiot.

A few minutes later I emerged from the restroom, slipped into the crowd and worked my way across the room to the long bar. As I got closer I could hear Fiona rambling on in make-believe French. I wondered what she was saying. The men around her were grinning like a bunch of fools and nodding their heads. The young man was in the center of the crowd. As I approached the group, he stepped toward me and said, "Thanks man. She said yes. I'm going to take her home."

I nodded, then turned my head toward Fiona and rolled my eyes. She stepped down from the stool and said quietly, "What do you want? I'm on a roll here."

"We've got to get out of here. I've got a woman trying to pimp her mother off on me."

She motioned toward the young man and said, "Eddie is going to take me home. You go ahead."

"I'll follow you," I replied.

"OK. We'll be out in a minute."

I quickly headed toward the door. I stood in the shadows beside the 'Cat and waited, hoping against hope that Honey Bear and her mother had not seen me leave. A minute later, Fiona and Eddie emerged from the club and headed toward an old worn out pickup. She slid over close to him as they pulled from the parking lot. I gave them a minute and dropped in behind them. I was ready to get home. No more Dancers for me.

*****************

As I neared the house, I cut through the alley and parked in the back yard. I entered though the mud room to avoid Fiona and Eddie. When I opened the door, Biscuit jumped at me snarling and growling low in the throat. I said, "I'll bury you in a shoe box in the back yard, you mutt." I pushed him away with my foot and he backed into the kitchen.

I heard Fiona and her latest conquest as they entered the house, laughing. I had to be up in a few hours to go to work, so I went into the bathroom and took a quick shower. When I finished, I opened the bathroom door and heard a flurry of French, then laughter. I dried off, slipped on an old pair of shorts and a T-shirt and went down the hallway to check on the lovebirds. I stood in the shadows just outside the arched entrance to the living room. Fiona perched on one end of the couch with her knees drawn tightly together, her hands folded in her lap, and her head lowered demurely. Eddie sat in the center hoping to get close enough to make a move.

She said something in Fiona French. To me it sounded like, go home Eddie.

Eddie said, " I don't understand."

"Par done Monsieur Eddie," Fiona said as she got up and headed toward the bathroom. When she saw me in the hallway, she pushed me into my room and closed the door.

"You've got to get rid of that idiot," she whispered loudly.

"Why me? You started this. I'm going to bed. I have to be at work in three hours."

Fiona glared at me as she left the room. For the next hour, I could hear her mumbling with Eddie asking questions in an increasingly frustrated voice. Realizing there would be no sleep tonight, I went in and sat down in a wing back chair.

I leaned forward and said, "Eddie. You've got to go. Fiona and I both have to go to work in a couple of hours. Anyway, I don't think that this is going to work out since neither of you can understand the other. I don't know of any way to help."

A crestfallen Eddie stood up, extended his hand to Fiona and pulled her to her feet. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and walked him to the door. I returned to bed.

Thank the Lord, I thought as I rolled over and tried to go to sleep.

****************************

The next night was burger night. It was my job to stop by Checker's and pick up a couple of burgers, fries, and shakes. We sat at the kitchen table laughing about the night before. Fiona slapped my hand away as I reached for one of her fries.

"You want to go to Dancer's tonight?" I asked slyly.

"Hell no. Why did I ever let you drag me into that god forsaken place?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," I lied.

"What're we going to do tonight?" she asked.

"I'm not going to do anything. I'm worn out. Might watch a little TV, then I'm hitting the rack."

"I'm bored."

"Don't start up with that again," I said.

The doorbell rang and then quickly rang again.

"You going to get that?" she asked.

"It's not my house. Nobody ever comes here to see me."

Fiona got up and shuffled toward the door with those damned flip flops slapping the floor. She was dressed in her normal house attire. T-shirt, underwear, and flip flops. At least tonight's shirt was bigger.

In a surprised voice she said, "Oui, Monsieur Eddie. En su prize moi?"

I went into the living room to see what was going on. Eddie stood at the door in a black suit and tie with his hair slicked back. He had a box of chocolates in one hand and a dozen roses in the other. He handed her the chocolates, then reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small book. A French-English dictionary. "Now, I can figure out what you are saying," he said proudly.

Fiona turned to me and spewed forth a flurry of Fiona French as she retreated down the hall. Sparks were flying from her eyes. I took the flowers and set them on a table in the living room.

"She's going to freshen up a bit," I said. "She was not expecting you. You want a beer?"

"A beer sounds good," Eddie said as he leaned around the doorway and peered down the hall. "Does she always dress like that?" he asked enviously.

I brought both of us a beer and we sat down for a few minutes. I leaned over and picked up the dictionary from the coffee table and thumbed through it. Fiona was taking her time getting ready and I was beginning to wonder if she might have gone out the back window. I remembered a time when she had done just that when two lovers showed up at the same time.

Eddie took a swig from the can and said, "I just couldn't give up that easy. I had to see her again."

My amusement was getting the best of me but I couldn't just laugh in the boy's face. "Just wait for her on the couch there," I said. "I've got to take the dog out for a walk."

I went to Fiona's room and checked on her. She was pulling clothes from the closet and cursing in a low tone. It had been a while since I had seen her so pissed.

"He's waiting," I said playfully. She glared at me and slammed the door. I went back to the kitchen to get Biscuit. I didn't normally walk him, but I needed to get out of the house. With quite a bit of trouble, I put the leash on him and we headed out the door. Once outside, I broke down in a fit of laughter. The two old widow women who lived across the street looked at me as though I were crazy. I continued down the street laughing out loud.

I made the walk a long one. I had tired of all this and just wanted to watch TV and go to bed. I hoped that Fiona would get rid of Eddie for good tonight.

The lights were on and I saw movement inside as I returned to the house. A French waltz greeted me when I stepped up on the porch. I believe it was 'A Stroll in Paris.' I looked in through the side light and saw Fiona dressed in a flowing white gown and high heels. Her face was painted in a garish manner and it was actually frightening to behold. Two half-empty glasses of wine sat on the coffee table.

I watched as she whirled around the floor, leading a poor stumbling Eddie around like a circus clown. The music finally faded away and they fell to the couch laughing. Both were out of breath.

Eddie picked up the dictionary and fumbled around for a suitable term. He pointed to a phrase that said in English, I like you. She looked at the translation and made a stab at the French pronunciation. She laughed and pointed to herself, then to him.

For an hour or more, they sat on the couch looking up phrases and lurching through poor attempts at communication. They were laughing but I could see Fiona's growing frustration. She was tiring of the game. She pulled a chocolate from the box and nibbled at it. Eddie leaned in and tried to kiss her. She pushed him away with a string of what I assumed was French profanity. Eddie was confused.

He picked up the book and started turning pages. Fiona said, "You poor dumb fool. Can't you tell a game from reality?"

Eddie looked up stunned. "You speak English?"

"Of course I do. I'm not French. It's just a game, silly."

Eddie's face turned a bright shade of red. "Damn you," he yelled.

I walked into the room when I sensed the situation might get out of control. He looked at me. I shrugged. "Damn you too," he screamed. His face was flushed and I feared he might start foaming at the mouth.

He got up and paced the floor staring at Fiona with contempt in his eyes. "I bought you candy and roses," he whined.

"Here's what I think of your roses, you dumbass." Fiona picked up the vase, pulled a long stemmed rose from it, bit the head off, and spit it on the floor. She proceeded to do the same with the eleven remaining flowers. Eddie stared in shock. Even I was put off by the action and I thought I had seen it all.

She handed him the stems and said, "Now, get out of here and don't come back. I don't want to ever see you again."

Eddie looked as though he had been struck by lightning. He threw the stems to the floor and said, "I'm going to go get my brother. We are going to come back over here and whip both of your asses. And then I'm going to burn this house down. I can't stand being made a fool of, especially by a couple of other fools."

Eddie stomped to the front door, pulled it open in a vicious manner, and slammed it for all he was worth as he left. The house shuddered from the impact. He revved up the truck engine several times and then roared away with the tires squalling. I could smell burned rubber from inside the house. I looked out the window and saw the two widow women across the street with their hands over their mouths, horrified.

I walked into my bedroom and began throwing clothes in my suitcase. Fiona followed and asked, "What are you doing, Snap?"

"In case you didn't notice, Eddie was mad as hell when he left. I don't plan to be here when he and his brother get back. I don't care much for ass whippings and fire."

Fiona disappeared into her room. A few minutes later she emerged dragging two suitcases across the floor. "I'm ready. Where're we going, Snap Boy?"

********************************

I popped the tab from the Coors can and walked over to the window. I stared into the darkness and watched as people strolled beneath the streetlamps by the park. The little house was mine now. No Fiona. No Biscuit.

I walked over to the couch, sat down, and put my feet up on the coffee table. I picked up a recent copy of Sandlapper magazine, a monthly rag that the nouveau riche and those struggling to attain social status use to validate themselves, and turned to a dog-eared page. A picture of a beaming Fiona greeted me. A four page glossy spread displayed her new surroundings, an upscale Charleston home furnished with Victorian antiques. A fitting home for the wife of a member of the South Carolina House of Representatives.

Our hurried escape from Eddie took us to the low country of South Carolina for a few days. Fiona upped her game and she wormed her way into the circles of old money and influence. A brief fling with a state representative resulted in his hurried divorce and a few months later a lavish wedding to Fiona. Her dream had come true.

As I looked into her eyes, I wondered what lay beneath them. What was she scheming now? Had her craziness surfaced for her new husband to deal with? I knew she could never be satisfied with what she had.

Eddie was never seen or heard from. I remember how thankful both of us had been when we returned home and found the house still standing.

I have not heard from Fiona since I bought the house. Occasionally a stray piece of mail, usually from a collection agency, will show up in the mailbox. And several times, roses have been delivered from some man or other who did not know she had moved on.

Not much has changed for me. Still the same-old, same-old routine, but from time-to-time, I am startled by a small black shadow slipping into the next room. I know Biscuit's gone but still I can feel him watching me as I try to sleep. And sometimes, in the stillness of the night, I can hear those damned flip-flops slapping the hardwood floor.

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ROCKING AT THE STORE

I tapped the brakes to slow down and turned left into the driveway of the country store. The gravel crunched underneath my tires and I goosed the old '53 Ford just a bit to kick up a little dust. I slid to a stop by the side of the building.

Four old raggedy ass cars sat parked in front of the door along side a brand new 1963 Chevrolet Corvair. The building was lit up with fluorescent and neon lights and even a blind man could see it for a country mile. Mama always said it made the grocery store look like a dadblamed juke joint. Thousands of bugs, from candlebats to old hard shelled black bugs swarmed around the lights. I rushed inside quickly pulling the screen door closed to keep them out. The ugly black bugs clung to the screen and I stopped and flicked a few just to see how far they would go.

Inside, my two younger brothers sat rocking back and forth on upturned Coca-Cola crates. I kicked at Larry and he flipped over backwards. He came up yelling, "Daddy, Marcus made me fall over."

"Cut that out," said Daddy with little enthusiasm in his voice.

Four old men sat in a circle staring down. I walked over and saw that one of them had drawn a diagram on the plank floor. It looked like what one of my teachers at school called an asterisk. It had a circle around it and old man Morehouse kept poking at it with a carpenters pencil.

"What ya'll looking at?" I asked.

"Marc, Mr. Morehouse here is describing his hemma-roid operation. That diagram would be his ice-hole."

"Huh," I said. "I didn't know they did it with a pencil."

Mr. Morehouse looked up at me and rolled his eyes. "Marc, you ain't got the sense the good Lord gave a turnip. Get on out of here."

I laughed and walked over to the lunch counter in the corner of the store. "Gimme a hamburger and some french fries, please Maam."

"You paying or is this for free? That'll tell me how big to make the burger."

"Let's just say I'm paying."

My grandmother dropped a cigarette butt into an almost empty Coke bottle and threw a large hamburger patty and some onions on the grill. She dropped a handful of fries into the deep fryer. "It'll be ready in a few minutes." she said.

A black '50 Ford filled with smart-asses pulled up to the gas tanks. A pneumatic bell rang and announced their arrival. "Jimmy," said my father addressing my middle brother. "Go out and pump those comedians some gas."

"Why do I have to do it?" he complained. "Make Marc do it. They don't want but fifty cents worth anyway."

"That's fifty cents more than we got," said Daddy. "Now get out there and pump that gas." Jimmy stood up, his drink crate falling to the floor. With out poked lips, he walked out the door letting it slam behind him. It didn't slam too loudly though. Jimmy had already gotten his behind torn up once today. I suspected that he didn't want another one. He was a defiant sort to say the least.

"The band is gonna play outside tonight," I said with authority. I knew if I asked if we could play I would receive an emphatic 'Hell No' from my father.

"Ya'll ain't gonna play any of that devil's music are you?" asked Mr. Morehouse. "We want to hear some self respecting music."

"You saying my boy ain't self respecting?" asked Daddy.

"Now, Milford. You know that ain't what I'm saying."

Everybody laughed. Mr. Hampton lowered his eyes and snickered behind his hand. Long, spindly, pasty white legs poked out beneath his flowered Bermuda shorts. In the early '60's no man from our area would be caught dead wearing such an outfit. Mr. Hampton was a transplant as Daddy called him, from somewhere up north. He was a funny little guy but he brought my mother some big band and jazz records that I liked to listen to. Mr. Hampton also drove the Corvair; one of the nicest cars in town. He had his uses, I guessed.

"We might play a little of both," I said.

"Well, at least play a couple of country songs," said Mr. Lester.

We lived in a small town in the deep South, not far from the South Carolina-Georgia line. The population was almost equally black and white. The white folks spoke with a country twang and the blacks with a kind of slurred speech. Our taste in music was reflected in the makeup of the white and black population. The white folks favored country music and the black folk liked what they called 'blues' music. Myself, I favored the blues but I did like some country music and of course rock and roll. I didn't give a royal rat's behind for 'doo-wop' music though. It just sounded silly to me. My music was a kind of high intensity, gut-bucket blues.

Daddy spoke up and said, "OK. Go ahead and play a few songs. It might draw in a some customers and we need all the money we can get."

I walked over to the heavy black telephone in the corner. I picked up the hand set, listened to make sure nobody was on the party line and dialed 4362. I placed the receiver back on the hook and waited for it to ring. T-Bone was waiting for the call and he picked up quickly.

I picked up the phone and asked, "That you T-Bone?"

"Yeah, it's me. You're the one who called. Who did you think it would be?"

"Well, we're on. Go by and pick up Dan and get on over here." I listened to him for a minute and hung up the phone.

After I finished off my burger and fries, I went outside. To the left of the store was an old concrete pad where an ice house used to be. It served as a stage for our band. I uncoiled a couple of extension cords and ran them outside the front door of the store. Then I opened the trunk of my old Ford and pulled out a shiny red Harmony electric guitar and a twenty watt amplifier. Next came the chrome microphone, a mike stand, and a cardboard box full of cords and what not.

I plugged everything in, strummed a couple of cords and sang a few lines. Everything worked. I heard a whining sound and looked up just as T-Bone's old one-eyed International pickup truck rolled to a stop. Dan jumped out and started unloading his snare drum and tom-toms. T-Bone lugged his guitar and amp to the concrete pad. A few minutes later everything was ready and we tested the rig out. Everything sounded fine. At least it did to us. Nobody with good hearing would say we were a good band. Most of our songs, rock, country and blues, sounded alike and for the most part were in the same key. We didn't care though.

T-Bone was a small boned boy that knew a few chords on the guitar. He had a nice Gibson that his daddy left him when he died. His real name was Tommy Bates. One night we were listening to the Jiving Hoss Man on WLAC radio in Nashville, Tennessee. He played a song by an artist named T-Bone Walker. Tommy quickly adopted T-Bone as his stage name.

Dan's stage name was Dangerous Dan. Sammy Franks had some old 78 RPM joke records made in the 1920's that we liked to listen to. One of the jokes was about a character named Dangerous Dan McGrew. Dan would cackle like a laughing hyena when listening to that joke, so we started calling him Dangerous Dan. He liked it, even though he was far from being a dangerous person.

My name? Well, I was a big boy. Stood six foot - three. Weighed in at a net of 262 pounds. Net weight meant I was buck nekkid. I was not a football tackle kind of big though. Over the years, I had taken advantage of my grandma's hamburgers, hot dogs, fried chicken, and BBQ hash. No, I was what was referred to as a fat ass. I didn't have much of a gut but I did have an ample gluteus maximus. At least thats what the kids at school said. The biology teacher confirmed it too. I, therefore, went by the name of Big'un.

Cars started arriving and parking around the driveway. The town was so small and far back in the sticks that any kind of activity quickly generated excitement. Every Thursday night, Daddy willing, we would play a few songs out front. At least in the spring and summer. Tonight was a danged hot summer night and the heat made the atmosphere ripe for something bad to happen.

The crowd consisted of a few carloads of teenagers who parked near the front of the store and the stage. Listening to us play was their excuse to get together and makeout for a while. A few old rednecks parked a little further out and even further back was where the black folks parked.

We mounted the stage and played a couple of country songs to satisfy the old timers in the store. As the driveway began to fill up, we started with our blues set. I hit a couple of heavy E chords and wailed into the mike. "I'm a natch'l born lover, Yeah, I'm a real good lover." The cars on the front row rocked back and forth and a couple of kids yelled out, "Yeah, I'm a natch'l born lover."

We played about fifteen songs and decided we'd take a break after the next one. We were already hot and sweaty. We launched into Jimmy Reed's 'Big Boss Man.'

Now, ain't it funny how time just seems to slow down and stand still when something bad is about to happen? You know the feeling. That's the feeling I was getting right now.

"You ain't so tall....."I moaned as my fingers walked down to a B7 chord. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large black woman walking toward an old rust covered Dodge that seemed to be rocking back and forth. She raised her arm and I saw the gun as she pointed it in the car window. Pow, pow, pow. It sounded like a small .32. Everybody's head turned toward the car.

For some folks, fear makes your mouth go dry. But not me. My mouth filled up with slobber. I had just rocked back on my left foot and was beginning to roll forward for my next line. My ample gluteus maximus undulated as I moved. As I rolled forward, my wet mouth came in contact with the ungrounded microphone.

"Woooooooowwwww," I yelled.

Heads turned back in my direction. My right foot came up and I did a little involuntary backslide.

"Get your black ass out of that car and leave my husband alone," the big woman shouted. She pulled the car door open and reached inside. Heads swiveled back to the car.

I was totally out of control and my head flopped back to the mike and once again my wet lips brushed it's shiny chrome body. "Got-to-mighty, dagnabbit," I screamed. Heads turned back to me.

"I'm gonna beat your fat ass to death," shouted the angry black woman as she dragged the adulteress from the car. Heads once again swiveled. The woman tumbled to the ground and a half-pint of whisky fell from between two massive breasts. The glass shattered on the gravel.

"Lord have mercy, she done gone and broke my liquor bottle," came an anguished cry from inside the car.

Still out of control, I brushed the mike again and the current transferred to my sweaty fingers. A flurry of never before heard notes came from the amp and it screamed with feedback and distortion. I slipped and rolled to one side, fell to the stage floor, turned over on my shoulder with my legs flying in the air, and came up on my feet. People turned back toward the stage with their mouths agape. I crashed backward and fell over Dan's drums breaking my guitar in the process.

The two black women were rolling on the gravel with fists and cuss words flying. Some men tried to separate them. The adulteress jumped up and started to run. "Come here to me, you hussy," screamed the other woman waving her pistol in the air.

I was vaguely aware that the air was filling with swirling red lights and wailing sirens as the sheriff and two ambulances arrived on the scene. Hearses from both funeral homes pulled up, sure that someone was dead. After all, there were gun shots.

The sheriff subdued both women. Finally he led them and the drunk husband away in handcuffs. Disappointed, the drivers of the hearses and ambulances left the scene.

A few minutes later, the local newspaper owner walked over to me sitting on the ground. "What in the world happened here tonight, Marc?"

Still dazed, I sat for a couple of minutes to gather my thoughts. "Well sir, I don't rightly know. I saw and heard the gunshots, felt myself being electrified, fell all over the stage, broke my guitar and Dan's drums and now, here I am."

"I'll have to write this story up for the paper," he said. "Been a long time since we've had this much excitement around here. This might even be an historical moment ."

Now, I don't know if history was made or not, but a couple of years later, I head James Brown make that same kind of yowl that I made when the juice hit me. And I swear up one side and down the other that Eric Clapton copied those guitar licks that I made when my fingers turned to fire. And that little back step I made? Michael Jackson did the same thing and became famous. Called it the moon walk I think. And even later some boys from Atlanta did what they called break dancing. It looked just like I did when I fell and rolled across the stage that night.

I've thought about that night many a time over the years and I've often wondered if a country boy with an oversized gluteus maximus and an ungrounded microphone and a mad black woman with a pistol had any influence on rock and roll. Of course, I can't prove it, but I say they did.

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CROSS COUNTRY

"Florence radio, Cessna 17 Bravo clear runway 27," I said into the mike.

"17 Bravo clear 27," replied the tower.

I taxied the small Cessna 150 back to the FBO, stopped, got out, and tied the plane down. Robert watched my every move including the tie down. He read the time meter inside the plane and scribbled some comments into his notebook.

"Well Sherm," said Robert, "it looks like you are ready to take your long cross country flight on your own. With a couple of small exceptions, this flight was almost flawless."

"Sounds good to me." I beamed with pride. Robert Morris was not an easy flight instructor to please. He had been teaching me the in's and out's of flying for the past eight months. We had just returned from a dual cross country from Florence to Wilmington and back. I would follow the same route on my solo flight.

Getting this far hadn't been easy. I had to scrape and save for every hour of flight and instruction time. At $11 per hour for the plane and $5 per hour for the instructor, learning to fly wasn't cheap. I bought my flight time in five hour increments when I could afford to; otherwise the flight time would have been $13 per hour. Robert was patient and understanding and told me to be realistic about the time it would take to get my license.

He taught me to taxi, takeoff, land, how to fly straight and level, slow flight techniques, and stalls. I did not care for stalls and told him so. "It's part of learning to fly, Sherm. You have to be ready for anything. There's a lot that can go wrong in the air."

I soloed at ten hours and then we started working on cross country flights. The requirements for the private license included two dual and two solo short cross country flights. Then, there was the long flight that required flying to a location at least one hundred nautical miles from the originating airport with a stop at an intermediate location. Three legs in other words.

"When will you have the money to take the flight?" he asked. "The sooner, the better so you don't forget anything that we worked on today."

I thought for a few minutes and finally said, "I can probably have the money next week. It'll be a stretch, but I'll make it happen."

We walked into the fixed base operations (FBO) office and scheduled my solo cross country for the following Thursday. "What's the damage for today?" I asked.

Robert checked the accumulated hours in his notebook and said, "Looks like three hours today. That's $39 for the plane and $15 for me."

"Can you cash my payroll check?"

"How much is it?"

I pulled the folded paper check out of my shirt pocket and looked. "$91.77," I said. That's a full weeks work.

He checked the cash drawer and said, "I don't have enough on hand, Sherm."

I pulled out my checkbook and scrawled out a check. July 11, 1971, payable to Goodman Aviation for $39. I pulled three crumpled up fives from my pants pocket and handed them to Robert. I always paid him in cash. I wish I made five bucks an hour, I thought.

I gathered my log book, charts, mechanical flight computer, and other implements, put them in my flight bag, and then headed home. Although I had just made the same flight I would make next week, I felt somewhat apprehensive. But, I thought, I had 32 hours now and had successfully made my two required solo short cross country flights. I had flown from Florence to Bennettsville and from Florence to Lumberton, N. C. There was minimal trouble and I made it back safely. The long flight was more intimidating.

I spent the next eight days planning my trip over and over. I plotted the course using my sectional charts and plotter. I selected check points, recorded radio frequencies, selected airports along the way for emergency landings, modified my course to compensate for various wind aloft situations, and calculated the required fuel for the trip. By Thursday, I was ready.

I walked into the pilots lounge at the FBO and looked around for Robert but he was nowhere to be seen. I checked to make sure today was the right day and that I had the plane scheduled for the rest of the day. Everything was OK. I stepped out into the hanger and saw Robert and the owner of the FBO standing near a plane that was undergoing it's one hundred hour inspection. I overheard their conversation before they saw me walk up.

"Bob, what did they offer you for 17 Bravo at the Raleigh dealership yesterday. We really need to get the best deal possible on that new plane."

"It wasn't good, Maurice. They said 17 Bravo was nothing but a bucket of bolts being held together by baling wire. They will have to do a complete overhaul before selling it. They wouldn't offer more than $5,000."

"Bullshit," said Maurice Goodman. "We need twice that much to make the trade. I don't have that much extra cash to put down and I'm already financing the max that they will let me borrow."

I stepped back out of sight, not wanting them to see me. My guts roiled. A bucket of bolts held together by baling wire? I've been flying this thing for the past eight months. I walked back to the pilots lounge. What should I do? My nerves were shaken. This was not how I wanted to start the day.

The door from the hanger opened and Robert and Maurice walked in. "Well, you ready to get started?" asked Robert with a huge grin. This is your day, my boy. Go ahead and lay those charts out and go through the planning process and then file the flight plan."

I hesitated for a minute fumbling with the charts and papers.

"You OK, Sherm? You look a bit rattled."

"I'm OK. It's a little intimidating, that's all."

"Well, let's get started. There's nothing to worry about. You've done this before."

I opened up the charts and laid them out on the table. I drew a circle around the three airports, Florence, Wilmington, and Laurinburg. Using my plotter, I drew a line from one to the other. Three legs in all. I noted obstructions along the route and selected 3,000 feet as the altitude I would fly. I recorded the magnetic deviation from true north and entered this on my flight planning worksheet.

After Robert confirmed my initial plan, I called the Florence weather service and got the latest enroute weather information including wind speeds up to 3,000 feet. I applied this information to my flight plan and finally had my final course bearings. Robert looked over the plan and approved it. I was ready to go.

I called the control tower and filed my flight plan. I would fly from Florence to Wilmington, N. C. for the first leg of the flight. After that I would fly from Wilmington to Laurinburg, N. C. and then back to Florence. I had to stop at each airport and have someone sign my logbook to prove that I was actually at that location. The trip was about 220 nautical miles and would take about two hours of flying time in the small Cessna. I figured about four hours overall including time to stop at each airport.

Robert and I walked out to the Cessna 150 that was tied down on the tarmac. I began the preflight procedure. I checked the oil, looked for loose wires or anything that might be out of place in the engine compartment, checked for water in the fuel, made sure the tires were properly inflated, and did a walk around looking for surface damage. I checked to make sure the elevator, tail, and ailerons worked as they should.

"Robert, this thing is pretty old. Are you sure it's safe to fly?"

"Why would you ask that, Sherm? You've been flying it for the past eight months and have made five cross country flights in it. You jittery or something?"

I hesitated for a minute and then said, "I overheard you telling Maurice that the dealership in Raleigh said it was just a bucket of bolts held together by baling wire. That kind of unsettled me."

Robert laughed. "I exaggerated to make a point to him. He's expecting to trade 17 Bravo in for a new plane and he's being unrealistic about the trade-in value. This plane is fine. I just flew it to Raleigh yesterday. Do you think I would take it up there if I didn't think it was safe. You know I wouldn't be sending you off on a long cross country if I didn't think that."

"Yeah. I guess so," I said. "You don't mind hearing something like that about a car or truck. But an airplane is an entirely different story."

"Forget what you heard Sherm. Everything is OK."

I nodded and got in the Cessna. I fired up the engine and tuned the radio to 123.625 to listen to the ATIS report. I recorded the wind and barometric pressure information. I set the altimeter to 147 feet above seal level. Then I switched the frequency to 12.19 and contacted Florence ground control.

"Florence Radio, Cessna 17 Bravo at Goodman FBO enroute Wilmington."

Cessna 17 Bravo, taxi to Runway 9 and hold. Altimeter two niner niner seven. Winds from the east at 5 knots."

"Florence Radio, Cessna 17 Bravo taxiing."

I thought about my conversation with Robert and felt a little better but there was still a nagging in the back of my mind. What if this thing weren't safe to fly? I tested out the controls as I rolled along the runway. The plane responded to my every touch. It's OK, I thought.

I pulled up short at the threshold to Runway 9, turned into the wind, ran up the power, and checked the engine RPM's. I tested each magneto and the carburetor heat. Everything seemed perfect. I radioed the tower. "Cessna 17 Bravo ready for takeoff."

"17 Bravo, no traffic in pattern. You are cleared for takeoff on runway 9. Altimeter 29.97. Winds are light and variable."

I eased the throttle forward and turned onto runway 9. I lined up with the center of the runway and pushed the throttle to the firewall. I watched as the airspeed indicator approached takeoff speed. At 50 knots, I gently pulled the control column back and continued to accelerate to 70 knots. The plane responded and lifted off the ground. I raised the nose slightly to reach the best rate of climb speed of 68 knots and continued to climb out. I watched the end of the runway pass beneath the plane as I scanned the airspace for other traffic.

Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire! The thought popped into my mind without warning and my mouth went dry. Forget it, I thought. The aircraft is OK. It was flying just as it should. I made a slight left turn and continued my climb out. I turned the plane so that the directional indicator was set to 87 degrees. At three thousand feet, I throttled back and watched until the tachometer settled on 2370 RPMS. I leveled out and held my course and altitude as best I could. I checked my charts and notes to make sure I was on the right heading. I scanned the sky looking for other aircraft.

My first checkpoint was the Pee Dee River. I looked to my left and saw the Highway 501 bridge. Right on target. I continued on. I could relax a bit now, I thought. I scanned the instrument panel, the airspeed indicator, the directional indicator, the tach, and fuel gage. I was using the dead reckoning and pilotage navigational methods and didn't need the VOR yet. I would tune into the Wilmington VOR as I got closer as an aid to find the airport. Robert had emphasized using all three navigational aids. Can't be too safe, he always said.

Dead Reckoning. Dead, I thought. That's not a word you want to hear in an airplane. Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Again the thought popped into my mind with no warning. Forget it, I thought. That's just what Robert said. Forget it.

I continued to scan for checkpoints. I found them but they seemed a little out of place. Just the direction I was looking in, I guessed. The little Cessna moved through the sky with little effort. I watched as my second checkpoint passed out of my left window. The town of Marion. Of course all towns look about the same from a plane. I hope that's Marion. I continued on.

I enjoyed the view. It was a beautiful summer day with hardly a cloud in the sky. I felt proud that I had learned to fly an airplane. It was something I never thought I could do. My parents would be proud and my friends envious, I thought. I was confident in myself.

I looked for my next checkpoint. I should be able to see the small grass airstrip at Green Sea. I was warned to watch out for jump planes in this area. I could not find Green Sea. Well, it was just a small grass airport and easy to miss unless you were looking closely. I'm OK I thought.

There were sure a lot of swamps in this area. Looking down, I saw the foreboding trees, rivers, and creeks that dotted the landscape. I shivered a little. I sure as hell don't want to go down here. Or anywhere else for that matter. Well, the Twin City and Brunswick airports are not far away if I need to land.

For some reason, my checkpoints seemed not to be showing up where I thought they should be. I looked for roads and other terrain that I had marked on the map. There. There's a road. I hope it's the right one.

Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Damnit! Get that thought out of your mind, Sherm. I tested the controls and adjusted the throttle. The plane seemed OK. No problems. Time passed by and I once again relaxed. I kept looking out of the cockpit for other planes. At 3,000 feet the only other thing to look for was tall radio towers. I should have already passed the highest one just outside of Mullins. It was 1,609 feet high. I kept a vigilant watch anyway.

I should be able to see the town of Clarendon by now, I thought. I scanned the ground below. It was no where to be seen. Well, it is a small town after all. Not much more than a crossroads really. I scanned left and right and finally saw a small town to my right. That must be Clarendon, I reasoned. It's not where I thought it would be, but at least it's there. I settled back a bit and then realized that I needed to take a leak. Well, I can't just stop by a cloud can I. I laughed out loud at the dumb joke.

A few minutes later a quick scan of the instrument panel revealed something to be out of place. What the hell! The directional indicator read 128 degrees. I checked my notes. My path should be 87 degrees.

I began to panic. No wonder the checkpoints looked out of place. I was headed in the wrong damned direction. Did I miscalculate the heading? Did I forget to compensate for magnetic north instead of true north? Was the wind speed faster and different than I thought? Where the hell was I? I had a vague thought that the town of Marion was on my left when I passed by. It should have been on my right!

Below me and to the right, two Air Force A-10 Warthogs passed by in a flash. It was unnerving to see planes streaking by at a high rate of speed. I remembered the day Robert and I were practicing stalls near the Pee Dee River. An Air Force jet came by so close we could see the pilot and read the tail number. It scared the crap out of both of us. We had wandered into a military oil burner route.

What were the Warthogs doing in this area, I wondered. They were stationed in Myrtle Beach. Ahead I saw a small lake. I didn't remember a lake from the last trip. I decided to descend a bit to get a better look at the surroundings. At 2,000 feet I could see the lake more clearly. A large industrial building was beside the lake and when I saw the red and white ringed smokestacks I knew where I was. Conway. I was way the hell off course. My mind was boiling over. What to do? What to do?

Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. For Christ's sake, Sherman. Get it together and figure out your next move. Man, I had to go.

"Myrtle Beach Control, Piedmont 910."

"This is Myrtle Beach Control. Go ahead Piedmont 910."

"Myrtle Beach, there's a small Cessna wandering around near the power plant. He's not far off the approach to runway 18. He's either lost or does not know what he's doing. He's just outside of your control zone."

"Roger Piedmont 910. We'll be on the lookout for him."

My face turned red with embarrassment. I knew they were talking about me. I scanned the air in every direction. I did not see an airliner anywhere. Thank God he could see me though.

Damnit. I picked up the sectional chart and found the VOR setting for Wilmington. I switched on the VOR indicator and entered the heading. I turned the plane and lined myself up with the VOR signal. I guessed it was about 70 nautical miles to Wilmington. I was way off course and way off schedule. I need to pee in the worst way, I thought.

I kept a vigilant watch on the VOR and the directional indicator to keep myself on course. I climbed out to 3,000 feet and settled in. I plotted new checkpoints and was able to find them with no problem. I felt like I was finally on the right path. I wondered if this would cause me to flunk my cross country flight. It might, you dumbass, if you don't kill yourself first. Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Good Lord!

I had my thighs pressed together now, such was the urge to urinate. My hands grew clammy and I was aware of perspiration running down my back. My mouth was dry as a bone. I had nothing in the plane to use for a urinal. If only I could tie a knot in it and make it go away. The urge grew worse. Focus on the course, I told myself. I was shaking. I wished I could run away and hide. Don't be a child, Sherm.

I stayed on course but the urge didn't go away. Everything began to take on a yellowish hue. My eyes must be filling up. They were floating for sure. I thought I might as well go ahead and pee in the plane. That would be the last resort though. I was not that far from Wilmington now. Sweat popped out on my forehead as big as dill pickles. Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Arrrrrrgh!

A wave of naseau washed over me and I shivered. Just in case, I pulled the barf bag out of the door pocket. I had never been airsick, but then, I had never had to piss this bad in the air. The wave hit me again and I barely had time to open the bag before I vomited my guts out. The plane bounced up and to the left. I was losing control. I grabbed the controls and finally wrestled the Cessna back into the correct attitude.

The smell of vomit overwhelmed the tiny cabin. I tried to close the bag off, then opened the window and pitched it out. I hoped it didn't hit anyone on the ground. A second later I heard a splat as the bag exploded against the fuselage. Damn it to hell!

Finally, I saw the Wilmington airport ahead. I picked up the mike and said, "Wilmington control, Cessna N8117 Bravo twenty miles out, inbound from the west ."

"Roger, Cessna 17 Bravo. Inbound from the west, twenty miles out. Runway 35 active. Winds light and variable. Altimeter 29.92. No traffic in pattern. Advise when you have the runway in sight."

"Cessna 17 Bravo will advise when runway 35 is in sight."

I focused on the airport in my sights. I throttled back to 2000 RPMs and set up a glide to the airport. My crotch was on fire and it was all I could do to maintain my wits. My hands cramped from holding the controls so tightly. The 150's cabin seemed to get smaller and smaller. My legs yearned to stretch. God, I needed to go. Just let it go, the little devil on my shoulder said.

"Kiss my ass," I yelled out loud. Man, I was losing it. I tightened up my thighs. Time to turn downwind.

"Wilmington Control, Cessna N17 Bravo turning downwind runway 35."

"Roger, N17 Bravo."

I descended to 1,000 feet and calculated my turn onto the base leg. At 700 feet, I turned left onto base and at 500 feet I tuned onto final approach. I could barely function. I pushed the throttle in instead of pulling out. I forgot to turn on the carb heat. I was coming in hot. I pulled back on the carb heat and the throttle and glided to the runway. I bounced and then floated. It was all I could do to get the plane under control and down on the runway. Finally. The chirp of tires. This time I stayed down. I slowed and turned left onto taxiway H.

"Wilmington Control, Cessna N17 Bravo clear runway 35."

"Roger, N17 Bravo clear runway 35."

I pressed the throttle in and raced along the taxiway, faster than I should have. I hoped no one noticed. I taxied onto the tarmac at the FBO, switched off the engine, flung open the door, and headed for the FBO in a dead run. I threw open the door and yelled out, '"Bathroom, bathroom." A couple of guys behind the counter laughed and pointed to the back of the room.

I stumbled into the restroom, raced to the urinal, and almost pissed myself before I could get it out. I stood there in simultaneous pain and relief as the fluid left my bladder and filled the urinal bowl. It seemed to take forever to finish. When I did finish, I sat down on the nearest toilet and let myself sink into a puddle of tortured human flesh. I caught my breath. My body was shaking violently. I stood up and slowly walked out into the lounge.

"Everything come out all right?" asked one of the men working the counter. The other man and a couple of pilots laughed. My face flushed.

"It's all right," said one of them. We've all been there."

"Top it off," I said to the attendant. A guy sitting at a table in the corner stood up and walked out to the fuel truck.

"I need you to sign my logbook for my cross country," I said to the attendant.

"Student pilot, huh?" he asked as if he didn't already know. "Where's your logbook?"

"Damn. Left it in the plane." I went into the bathroom and pulled out of handful of paper towels to clean the vomit off the plane and then ran outside to retrieve the book. I looked at the plane and thought, Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Add a piss poor pilot to that and you have a disaster in the making. I shuddered.

A dull and burning ache flared through my groin. I turned away from the FBO to rub myself in an attempt to ease the pain. I walked around the outside the office for ten minutes before the ache subsided.

Back inside, I invested two bucks in a small plastic pilot's urinal. The attendant checked out my logbook and then signed it. I wanted something to drink in a most desperate manner, but I was afraid to. I finally bought a small coke and took a couple of sips. Before I left, I revisited the restroom twice. I pulled out all the cash I had with me and paid the attendant for the gas, coke, and urinal. I sat down at a table in the lounge and studied my route to Laurinburg. At least it's only sixty nautical miles, I thought.

Back at the plane, I did another preflight. Everything seemed in order. I settled myself in and checked the instruments. The tanks were full. I radioed the tower and then taxied back out to Runway 35. I ran up the engine and checked everything out. I looked for incoming traffic. When I was cleared for takeoff, I pulled onto the runway and pressed the throttle to the firewall. I could not get away from Wilmington quickly enough.

The plane responded and raced down the runway. At fifty knots, I rotated the column back and the plane soon left the ground. I was airborne.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

"What the hell?" I shouted aloud.

Bam! Bam!

Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. Oh God Almighty. No. The noise grew worse and panic set in. I'm going to die, I thought. I couldn't go through the hell I've just been through and then die in a fiery crash on the runway. I was too high to settle back to the ground. Just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire. The hair on my head stood up and I could feel my entire body break into a cold sweat.

I tried to regain my composure. I quickly checked the instrument panel. Everything looked fine. I looked out the right window and looked at the wing and aileron. They looked good. So did the right wheel. I did the same check on the left side. I looked back. The tail and elevator were in place and working. The bamming continued. It sounded like the entire plane was falling apart.

"Wilmington Control, Cessna N17 Bravo. I've got to make an emergency landing. I've got a major problem here."

"Roger N17 Bravo. We've got our eyes on you. Go around and land on runway 35. All other traffic will be cleared."

I went through the motions of climbing out, turning at the appropriate altitudes, and finally found myself back on final approach. The noise would not stop and seemed to get worse by the minute. I'll never know how, but I greased it in for a perfect landing. I slowed and turned at the first taxiway. Thank God Almighty, I was on the ground.

I stopped on the taxiway and caught my breath. The plane had landed perfectly and nothing appeared to have fallen off. I opened the door and reached down to unbuckle the seat belt. It wasn't there. I got out and looked back. The belt was hanging out the door and the buckle had beat the crap out of the side of the plane. I felt like a damned fool.

I got back in, buckled up, and radioed the tower. "I found the problem," I said. "I'm ready to go."

I took off as soon as I was cleared and left Wilmington as fast as the bucket of bolts could carry me. In my minds eye, I could see the controllers in the tower laughing at the fool from Florence. I was hoping that someone in there was praying for me. I could not get out of there fast enough. It was almost twenty years before I returned to Wilmington - In a car.

The rest of the trip was fairly uneventful though the ache in my groin was still there. I kept a close eye on my course and fuel. I stopped over in Laurinburg to get my log book signed. I went to the restroom twice, even though I didn't have to. I took a few minutes to drink a coke and get myself under control. I realized that everything that had happened today had been pilot error. At no time did the little Cessna fail me.

Back in Florence, Robert met me on the tarmac. "How did it go?" he asked.

"Not too bad," I replied, trying to appear confident.

"Really, no problems at all?"

"Well, I got a little off track a couple of times and had to piss real bad, but other than that it was OK."

Back in the FBO, Robert signed off on my long cross country flight. One more step on the way to my private license completed.

On the way home, I recounted the day's events. The horror I felt at being lost. The pain from having to pee so badly. The embarrassment for making a complete fool out of myself. I wondered if Robert had talked to the FBO in Wilmington to check on me. Had he overheard the radio conversations? I had to be the worst student pilot in the world. But worst of all was the fact I had been overconfident and made a lot of errors in judgment that could have resulted in disaster. I was a danger to myself and others. That the plane was just a bucket of bolts held together by bailing wire just compounded my feelings of total incompetence. I could have died today, I thought. I felt my bowels loosen. Two miles to go to get home.

I almost made it.

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### HOOTCHIE COOTCHIE

"Well, I'm off to the fair for a little while," I announced as I got up from the supper table."

"Can I go, Can I go?" asked my little brother excitedly. He slid out of his chair and started jumping up and down.

"Not tonight," I said. "I've got to meet a couple of friends. "

The inquisition began and I argued with my parents for a while before I was finally allowed to leave. I tried to ignore my little brother's sad eyes and I slipped out to the car. I had just gotten my night license and had my own car. Going to the fair alone was a new adventure. I had lied to my parents, though it was not the first time. I did not plan to meet any friends. I had my own agenda for tonight.

I paid for my ticket to the fair and spoke to Mr. Burress. Then I went to the agriculture barn and wandered around looking at the cows, pigs, chickens, and rabbits. Everywhere I went I made sure that I was seen and recognized. An alibi was important.

I wandered out to the midway and took in the sights. A big tray of greasy fries and a Pepsi Cola would hit the spot, I thought. I took the fries and drink to a picnic table and sat down to eat. Across the midway I could see the girls dancing and gyrating on stage. I watched them out of the corner of my eye, pretending not to notice. When I had finished the fries, I got up and drifted aimlessly around the midway but always working my way closer to the girlie show.

There was a big crowd around the outside stage and the barker kept working the crowd, luring more and more men, young and old, into the tent. I watched closely to see who was in the crowd. Was there anyone I knew? After a few minutes the crowd began to move toward the tent. I meandered over to the crowd and joined in at the fringes. As the crowd pushed toward the entrance, I worked my way inside. Only a few feet to go and I would be inside the tent. I was big for my age and had not shaved for a couple of days to present a more manly appearance to the barker. Finally, I was at the entrance. I handed him the two dollars without looking up. Finally a voice said, "Get a move on it son, don't just stand there." I had passed the first test.

Inside the tent was a stage with a group of men circled around it. I eased into the crowd near the stage eager for the show to begin. I didn't look around to see who was there and hoped than no one recognized me. The curtain parted and a face looked out. The curtain swished back and forth, teasing the crowd. Finally, the hiss of a record filled the air and a sultry saxophone began a slow low- down blues song. Stripping music if I ever heard it.

The curtain opened and three young girls appeared on stage with just enough clothing to whet the imagination. The gyrations began and they seductively lured the crowd to the stage. I moved with them. A platinum blonde occupied the stage just in front of me. She was hot to trot, putting it mildly. I watched as the scanty top flashed away from her large, milky breasts. The nipples were tantalizing and I could see myself caressing them. I looked down and saw the curve of her belly and the enticing thighs. The doorway to heaven was covered by a flimsy wrap around.

As she danced, she dipped down and her bottom swayed back and forth, her legs slightly parted. She worked the crowd closer to the stage. My eyes locked in on the creamy flesh. They followed every sway, every dip, every part of the thighs. She stood up and turned around, looking over her shoulder at the crowd, and me. A quick flick of the wrist and the wrap around disappeared. Only a G-string remained between my eyes and the reward I was seeking. I eased in closer to the stage. A few more sways and dips and the g-string flew through the air toward the back of the stage. There it was. I couldn't take my eyes off it. She hunkered down and eased toward the edge of the stage, her high heels clicking. I closed in. It was just the two of us then. The crowd ceased to exist. Squatting directly in front of me, she slithered forward. I nosed in a little more. Her legs were closed but parted just enough to entice me onward. From between her thighs, I could hear, "Closer, closer." I moved closer and found myself at the edge of the stage. I rested my arms on the stage and she wiggled in a little closer. Her legs parted and I was suddenly face to face with the first live cooter I had ever seen up close. My eyes bulged and I let out a gasp. With the suddenness of a bear trap, her hand reached forward and pulled my head between her legs and her thighs snapped shut locking my head between her legs.

"Lord, Jesus help me, Jesus help me, " I cried out. My legs began running in place and my long arms flapped uncontrollably like a turkey trying to take flight. I couldn't move my head, just my legs and arms. I kept running and flapping and begging for help from Jesus.

Finally her legs parted and I fell back. My face was blood red and for the first time I could hear the roar of the crowd as the men hooted and hollered, all at my expense. I turned and headed for the back flap of the tent. I had to get the hell out of there.

"Well, how was it?" a very familiar voice said. I looked over and saw my father and the mayor standing side-by-side grinning and laughing. I couldn't speak. I just got out. The laughter of the crowd followed me outside, across the midway, through the gate, and to the car.

I drove around town slowly trying to figure out what to do. I finally decided just to go on home. I knew my father would not say anything. After all, he would have to admit being there himself. I felt better.

When I walked in the front door I heard my father say, "Lois, guess where your eldest son went tonight?"

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### PLUM BRANCH WEDDING

Lod and Lum sat on the unpainted front porch and watched as Maude pulled a bucket of water from the well. She struggled up the dusty path to the house with the bucket.

"Wouldn't be so heavy if you'd just pour some of that water out," called Lod. "Two light trips is easier that one heavy trip."

Maude gave Lod a look that would have shriveled the devil's scrotum sack. "You lazy, good-for-nothing fool. You ain't never made more'n twenty cents a day doing nothing. And then you drunk it all up before you got home with it."

"Now, you know that ain't true, woman. There's been plenty of times I made more than that."

"Well, if you cain't help me none, don't come rooting around on my side of the bed tonight. I'm closed for business."

Lum took a nip off the pint of shine and passed it over to Lod. Lod took a nip and said, "Ain't much left. We got to do something soon."

Lum finished sharpening his pocket knife on an old worn out whetstone. He put the stone in his pocket and pulled off one dusty boot, then the other. His socks were filthy and had worn out long ago. He pulled his foot up into his lap and began carving off his long dirty toenails. "This is a good'n," he said as he held up a solid clipping from his big toe. He wiped the toenail off on his shirt tail and laid it to the side. Lod watched as the ritual unfolded. Lum finally finished the job and put the knife back in his pocket. He leaned back and began picking his teeth with the toenail.

Lod had almost dozed off when he felt Lum shaking him. "Look Lod, there's a wagon coming up the road." Lod sat up and took a look. He could see a cloud of dust rising behind a one horse wagon with two people in it.

"Wonder who the hell that is?"

"Don't know, but I'll be finding out," said Lod. He stretched, then got up and walked down to the end of the porch. He unzipped his fly and felt around inside for a minute. He whistled, then called, "Come here, Sparkle, come here girl." A little Fiste dog ran out from underneath the porch looking for a treat. Instead, Lod let loose with a stream of piss and caught Sparkle in the right eye. She ran back under the porch growling and yelping. Lod finished up and tucked himself away.

Lum laughed. "Ol' Sparkle won't never learn, will she?"

The wagon was getting closer and closer to the house. The old mule was just plodding along with no sense of urgency. The two men walked down off the porch and out to the road. As the wagon and mule got closer, Lod held up his hand for them to stop. "Where you two fine young folks off to today?" he asked.

"Well, sir. We are on our way to McCormick," said the young man driving the wagon. The girl giggled and looked down.

"What're you going to do over there?" asked Lod.

"We're aiming to get married, Mr. Lod."

"You Rufus's Booth's boy, ain't you?"

"Yessir. He's my daddy."

"You know there ain't no need to go all the way to McCormick to get married. You can do it right here in Plum Branch."

"I don't know of no preacher man around here that might marry us," said young Booth.

"I'll be glad to do it myself," said Lod. "You know over in McCormick it costs five dollars for a license."

The young couple looked at each other in shock. "Why, we ain't got no five dollars, Mr. Lod."

"How much you got?" asked Lod.

The young man dug around in his pockets and came out with two wadded up one dollar bills. "This is all we got, sir."

"I guess I can do it for you for two dollars," said Lod.

"Well sir, that would be awful nice of you."

"Hop down off that wagon and go over there to the porch," Lod told the couple. Then he said, " Lum, go over there in Maude's garden and pick a couple of them carnation milk flowers for the bride."

Lum wobbled over to the garden and Lod went in the house. A minute later he came out and stood on the porch. "Step up here on the top step, he said." The bride held two carnation flowers in her hand. The couple stood there smiling eagerly.

Lod opened the book to page 84 and said. "Let him and her who want to be joined together in holy matrimony and cleave unto each other, take each others hand. Then look each other in the eye and repeat after me. "I, Mr. Booth and I Miss. Sooet do take each other as a man and a woman ought to. And we will live together under the watchful eye of the Lord forever and forever."

The couple repeated the vows and Lod said, "Now I pronounce you man and woman. You can kiss the woman now, Mr. Booth."

The couple leaned in and kissed each other. Lod closed the book and placed it on the porch rail. He pulled out a pencil and a pocket knife. He sharpened the point, licked it with his tongue, and began to write in a Blue Horse notebook.

This here paper certifies that Mr. Booth and Miss Sooet are cleaved unto each other as a man and a woman ought to be and they have been joined together under the watchful eyes of the Lord. So help me God, Signed, Mr. Lod. March 10, 1922.

"Now make your marks here," he instructed the young couple. Mr. Booth made a little scribbling mark and Miss Sooet made a tiny x.

Lod ripped the paper out and handed it to Mr. Booth. Mr. Booth gave him the two dollars and smiling broadly the young couple went back to the wagon and turned around to head home.

Lod called out, "Now work that thing good and proper tonight or there won't be no chaps."

Maude picked up the Sears and Roebuck catalog and Blue Horse notebook and took them back inside. "I swear for' ever loving God, you will be struck down by lightning for this, Lod."

"Maybe so," Lod said. "But I done done enough work for one day." He walked to the end of the porch and called out, "Herman. Git the mule and go over to Fat's house and git me four pints of likker. Here's two dollars. And git back here in a hurry. We're about to run out."

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### WILD WOMAN FROM BORNEO

"Step right up, folks. See the wild woman from Borneo. She's just arrived in America, straight from Borneo. She's a wild demon, she is." The carnival Barker kept his spiel running. Sounds of screaming and gnashing of teeth filled the air.

We were walking along the line of sideshows, Eddie running ahead and Little Lee walking between Grandma and Grandpa. They both were holding his hands to keep him from getting lost in the crowd. I hung behind and tried not to look like I was with them. At my age it was not cool to be at the fair with your Grandparents and brothers. I tried to maintain a disinterested appearance.

"Can we go in, Grandpa?" Eddie asked.

"Yeah," said Lee, "Can we go in?"

"I don't know," said Grandma. This doesn't look safe to me."

"It's just a bunch a malarkey," said Grandpa.

"Please, Granddaddy," said Eddie.

I didn't say anything. I just hung behind.

After a minute, Grandpa said, "I guess we can go in and check it out."

We gathered in front of the stage and listened to the Barker. "Get your tickets while they last, folks. This is a sight to behold and not many people have seen her and lived to tell about it."

Lee's ears perked up and a look of fear washed across his face. Eddie plowed onward through the crowd. We followed and Grandpa bought our tickets. We entered the tent hesitantly. The tent was small inside and there was a pen in the middle. There were no seats, just standing room. The pen was about 20 x 20 with wooden boards spaced like a fence about waist high. Above that was a heavy duty wire, kind of like chicken wire. A door in the wall on one end of the pen led to the outside and there was another door to a cage on the other end. The floor was just red dirt.

"What's that on the ground over there, Grandpa?" asked Eddie. He swallowed hard and asked, "Is that blood over there?"

"That's what it looks like to me," Grandpa said.

I stood off to myself a few feet away to maintain my aloofness. I watched warily, waiting. Outside the carnival barker said, "Entry is over for this show, Ladies and Gents. We are about to get underway." The screaming and growling sound from outside speakers stopped and it was suddenly quiet inside the tent. About thirty people lined the walls of the pen. It wouldn't be long now.

The barker stepped inside the pen through the door on the end. "This will be a show you will tell your children and grandchildren about. A show that will stop the heart. A show that you will never forget. The wild woman from Borneo is a crazed lunatic. She loves to feast on human flesh. She's got an appetite for human blood, especially young boys." He looked at the three of us and frowned.

Everyone shivered just a bit. The barker stepped out through the door and opened a cage. He grabbed a chicken and pitched it into the pen, quickly closing the door."

"Hey, that's just a damned chicken. That ain't no wild woman," Ernie Simpson yelled. "We want our money back."

An animal like scream pierced the tent and the cage at the other end of the pen rattled and shook. The door flew open and a small wiry woman emerged running on all fours like an ape. She ran across the pen hell bent for leather and leapt into the air hitting the wall of the pen in front of a crowd of girls. They screamed and ran for the back of the tent.

Eddie stood with his nose against the chicken wire, laughing. Lee wiggled and pulled himself up against Grandpa's leg. The wild woman prowled around the cage, growling and grunting. She had long black stringy hair caked in red dust and mud. Her body was dark brown and was filthy. A scent followed her as she walked back and forth in front of the crowd.

Her attention then turned to the chicken and she began to stalk it. Back and forth. The chicken would walk a few steps and then break into a short run. "Buk, buk, buk, bwarrrrrk," the chicken cried. The wild woman kept her distance but slowly closed in. With a shriek that would scare the hell out of the devil, she pounced and grabbed the chicken by the neck. "Bwark, Bwark, Bwark." She stood up to her full height and swung the chicken around and around over her head, screaming all the while. With a gush of blood, the chicken's head came off and it's body fell to the ground in a full run. The headless chicken ran round and round the pen, bumping into the sides. Blood covered the walls as it spurted from the headless neck.

The wild woman from Borneo ran down the body, stood up, and held the chicken high over her head. She opened her mouth and blood poured from the chicken's neck into her mouth. Her face, mouth, teeth, and upper body were covered in blood. She threw the body across the pen where it twitched until it finally became still.

Then her attention turned to us. Eddie was still standing by the pen grinning. With absolutely no warning, she bounded across the pen and pounced. Her fingers and toes dug into the chicken wire and she shook it for all she was worth. Eddie jumped back and turned to run. He tripped and fell face first into the red dirt. The wild woman dropped down from the pen and grabbed one of the boards from the bottom of the fence. She began to rip and tear, pulling the boards from the wall. We all jumped back and Grandpa picked Little Lee up and held him.

The barker entered the pen with a bull whip. "Get back, you wild woman. Get back," he yelled. The whip cracked and snapped. The wild woman backed across the pen and disappeared into the cage. The door dropped behind her.

A couple of carnival employees herded us out of the tent - shaken to the core. We emerged into the frolicking atmosphere of the carnival. The smells of the fair hit us and suddenly we were hungry.

"How about some cotton candy?" asked Grandpa.

We were all for that. It took our minds off the carnage we had just witnessed. But it didn't stay out of our minds for long. We kept looking back at the tent. We could hear the screams and growls from the speakers in front of the tent.

We walked around the carnival, back and forth. It was very small and did not take long to cover. We went back by the wild woman from Borneo's tent. The barker was still holding forth. Another crowd was forming.

Suddenly, behind the fence and near a small silver trailer, I saw her. The wild woman from Borneo was loose. She was out of the cage. I tried to yell out but my voice was gone. I looked and everyone else had walked on ahead of me. My hair stood up on end. I couldn't take my eyes off her. She squatted down beside the trailer and I thought, Oh No! My feet tried to run, but they just shuffled back and forth. I couldn't move.

A flare of light washed over her face and I could see the fury there. Then she stood up and took a drag off her cigarette. She looked me in the eye and held up a Schlitz beer to me. Then smiling, she sat down in a lawn chair.

I looked at her and thought, wild woman from Borneo, my ass.

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### DISASTER AT THE OLD WASH HOLE

Granddaddy eased the old pickup truck along the dirt road, then turned off onto a smaller road that was not much more than two ruts through the woods. The trees slapped the sides of the truck and my brothers and I had to lay down in the back of the truck to keep from getting knocked in the head by a tree limb. Grandma and Grandpa were sitting up front laughing and talking.

We were on the way to a picnic at the old wash hole on Hard Labor Creek. We could hardly wait to get there. A few minutes later Grandpa stopped the truck in a small clearing and we all piled out of the back, ready to go. It was still five hundred feet to the creek. Little Lee was running with his arms outstretched and turning in circles trying to sound like a dive bombing airplane.

Grandpa unloaded the truck and handed everyone something to carry. Grandma had the picnic basket, I had the blankets and towels, Eddie had the fishing poles, Lee had the worms, and Grandpa had the ice chest full of tea and drinks. We started down the overgrown path to the creek with Grandpa leading and Grandma bringing up the rear.

"Watch out for those Highland Moccasins," Grandpa said. The way it came out it sounded like 'hollering moccasins.' I shivered a bit as I visualized a coiled snake with his head drawn back ready to strike and a hollering sound coming from his mouth. Everyone slowed down and became a bit more vigilant.

We wound through the underbrush and Eddie jumped back and yelled, "Look out. It's a hollering moccasin." Everyone halted just a bit and then Eddie laughed. "Got ya," he said.

"I'm gonna get your behind, young man," said Grandma.

Just ahead, Grandpa stopped and set down the ice chest. We all stopped for a quick rest. He wandered into the woods and shouted back, "Look here. Here's some nice bullisters."

I went into the woods behind him because if there was anything I loved, it was muscadines. We examined the berries and he said, "They're just a bit green now. Maybe we'll come back next week and check on them. They ought to be just about right in a week or so."

We went back to the path, picked up our loads, and headed toward the creek. I was ready to eat. There was no better cook in the world than Grandma. She had a picnic basket full of fried chicken, country ham biscuits, potato salad, snap peas, and coconut cake. There were three gallons of sweet tea in the ice chest. My mouth was watering.

Five minutes later we were in a clearing by the wash hole. There was a wide bend in the creek, a nice grassy field, and trees with big heavy branches just right for swinging out over the creek. In fact, there was a rope already hanging from one of the trees. This was not the first time we had been here.

"Granddaddy, why do they call this the wash hole," I asked.

"Well, back in earlier times, there were settlers that lived along Hard Labor creek. Most of them were from Germany. There used to be some cabins in these woods but they are all gone now. The settlers got their water and fish from this creek. The women used to wash their clothes down there on those big rocks. They would wash and beat the dirt out of the laundry, right there."

"I wish those cabins were still around," I said.

"Me too," said Grandma.

Little Lee was still making like an airplane in his starched khaki shorts, yellow T-shirt, and white sandals. Eddie was already down by the creek testing the rope. "Can I go swimming, now?" he called.

"Not until an hour after dinner," said Grandma. "I want to eat while everything's still warm. Then we'll fish a bit and later you can go swimming."

Eddie moped back up to the picnic spot with his lower lip poking out. He had a dark expression on his face. I unfolded the blankets and spread them out on the ground. Grandpa started putting tea in mason jars. When everything was finally ready, we dug in. No one thought of swimming now. The food was just too good.

When we were finished, Grandma said, "Here. Take these cane poles and worms down to the creek and see if you can catch a couple of fish that we can take home. Eddie grabbed the poles and the worms and headed to a good shady spot on the creek bank. Little Lee and Granddaddy followed.

"I'm going to go exploring for awhile," I said. "I want to see if I can find any old cabins in the woods."

"Well, don't go too far," said Granddaddy, "and watch where you step."

I headed back along the trail we had come in on and wandered around for awhile. I found some old rocks piled up that might have been where a cabin once stood. I couldn't tell for sure though. After a few minutes, I found myself back at the muscadine bushes. I stood there for a few minutes looking and finally ate one. It's common knowledge that no one can eat just one muscadine and I quickly found myself stuffing them in my mouth. They were good even though they were still green and a bit sour.

I sat down on the ground underneath a large oak tree and soon found myself snoozing. A few minutes later I felt Eddie shaking my shoulder. "Neal," he said. "It's time to go swimming. An hour has already passed."

"OK," I said. "Did you catch any fish?"

"I caught two mudcats. That's all though."

We got back to the wash hole and I stepped behind some bushes and put on my swimming trunks. Eddie and Lee were already changed. We headed down the creek bank and stuck our toes in the water.

Granddaddy said, "Look over there. There's a big snapping turtle. Stay away from him. If he bites you, he won't turn aloose until it thunders. And if he snaps one of your goober's it'll be too wet to plow."

We watched the turtle as he slowly swam away down stream. We searched the creek but there were no others, that we could see, anyway. Lee took my hand and we stepped into the water. Overhead, Eddie swung by screaming like a wild banshee. He dropped into the water and came up a minute later laughing.

Grandma and Grandpa sat on the creek bank talking and watching to make sure we didn't drown. Grandpa was whittling on a stick that he had picked up off the ground.

Little Lee was dogpaddling around the edges and kept swimming from the bank toward middle of the creek and then back. He was testing his limits. Eddie was bigger and stronger and he swam back and forth across the stream. I wandered upstream a bit. The water was not too deep in most places and I could easily touch bottom and stand up.

"Watch out that you don't step in a hole," yelled Grandpa.

I wandered up the creek and turned to look back down stream. Eddie's feet were out of the water and he was trying to do hand stands. Mud was swirling up around him where he was kicking and tumbling in the water. Lee was dogpaddling out to the center, a little further each time.

I was standing in the middle of the creek with the water streaming by when I felt it. At first I didn't know what it was, but then I felt it again. A terrible pain shot through my gut and I knew I could not make it to the bank. I turned around so they couldn't see my face and dropped my trunks. Just in time, too. Please Lord, let it be a small one. My prayers weren't answered. I pulled up my trunks and looked around, wondering if anybody had seen.

I turned and looked back down stream. Eddie was getting ready to flip over again when I saw it heading straight for him.

"Turd," I yelled. "Turd in the water."

It was too late to stop Eddie and he flipped over. He came up face-to-face with it.

"Turd," I yelled again. "Turd in the water."

Eddie frantically tried to sweep it away with his hands but it hit him anyway. He jumped back and screamed, "Good Lord, have mercy." The turd hit him square in the face.

I looked down stream and Little Lee was thrashing around in the water, no longer swimming. He was flailing around hollering, "Turd, Turd, Turd!"

Grandpa was up and heading down the bank to pull him out. Eddie was jumping up and down, sweeping his hands back and forth across the water trying to keep it away. He used a vocabulary of words that none of us had ever heard him say before and Grandma was yelling, "Eddie, stop using that blackguard talk."

I eased over to the bank, hoping that no one had figured out what had happened. Eddie got back to the bank and was down at the edge of the water frantically scrubbing his face and arms with the creek water.

A minute later, I was lying on the ground gasping to catch my breath. Grandma was holding Lee who was wrapped in a towel, crying and shivering. Eddie was stomping around red faced and mad as hell.

"Where did that thing come from Granddaddy?" he cried. "Where did it come from?"

Grandpa looked over at me and said, "Ask your brother. He's the one who ate all those green muscadines."

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### THE QUESTION

The back of Walter's hairy hand touched the side of my knee. "Take a look at that." he whispered.

I didn't have to look up to know what he was talking about. The parade of good looking women had been non-stop all day. Back and forth they strolled along the boat dock at the marina. When they eyed the rich bastards sitting on their yachts, they slowed their strut and struck various poses designed to draw attention to themselves.

I glanced up and saw a string bikini clad lovely looking our way. It might have been me she was looking at, but it wasn't me she wanted. She was looking for a sugar daddy. That was definitely not me.

The boat rocked slightly as I leaned forward and took another cold beer from the ice chest. It was a German dark ale but I couldn't pronounce or even read the name. It was pretty good though. Walter leaned back, took a drag off the Cohiba Esplendido, and blew a few smoke rings skyward. "This is the life, eh? These babies go for $35 a pop."

"I guess so," I said as I propped my K-Mart boat shoes up on the ice chest.

"You guess so?" he asked. "You know damned good and well this is the life, boy."

I leaned back and stared at the blue summer sky and wondered again how my small circle of friends had overlapped with Walter's circle. It wasn't like we had anything in common. He had all he needed. I had a fairly stable job but lived from paycheck to paycheck. Hell, I'd had to charge the boat shoes, shorts, and t-shirt from K-Mart on an already over-extended credit card when I'd gotten the invite to spend the afternoon on the boat.

My buddy, Sam had asked me to come along and spend the afternoon with some of his friends. I think he was surprised when I accepted. Now he and some of the other members of the party were off on a cigar boat speeding across the bay, drinking and raising hell. There was not enough room for all of us, so Walter had volunteered to stay behind with me. Out of charity, I guess. I didn't care because I didn't fit in with that crowd anyway. It was obvious that Walter despised me and everyone like me for that matter. Anybody that wasn't rich fit that bill.

Another girl gracefully strutted along the deck near the back of the boat. I always wondered why rich people bought these big-assed boats and then left them tied up in the marina all the time. So they could just spend their time partying, I guessed. Kind of like a floating whorehouse.

"You want some of that cooze?" Walter asked. "I can get it for you. All I have to do is just say the word."

"Nah," I said. "I've had all the tail I can stand for one day."

Walter reared back and laughed. Then the question. The one that the nouveau riche asked themselves to flaunt their wealth; to validate themselves. No really rich person would ask such a question; they didn't know that we even existed.

"Wonder what the poor folks are doing today?"

My sphincter tightened. I hated that question. "Well, I don't know about all of them," I said. "But this one's sitting here drinking your beer."

I could sense the tension in the air. I continued, "There are a lot of poor folks out there, Walter. A lot of them are homeless and starving. I expect they are wondering where their next meal is coming from. You ever been homeless, Walter?"

"Damn near it," he exclaimed. "I once got to the Plaza Hotel in Las Vegas and my reservations had been lost. Had to stay in the Encore instead. Made them comp it too. Bastards lost the reservations to a $34,000 per night room. Like I couldn't pay for it or something."

"I don't think it's the same, Walter."

"Well, it's a rhetorical question anyway. I wasn't looking for an answer."

"You've never thought about being poor?"

"Why should I? I've got all I need. Money, women, liquor, food, toys. I don't have to work a day for the rest of my life if I don't want to. To hell with the poor people."

"How much money you got, Walter?" I asked. I knew this was not the kind of question that you would ask a rich person, or anybody for that matter. I was just toying with him and he knew it. He didn't like it one damned bit either. What did I have to lose?

Walter shifted his bulk around as he pulled another beer from the ice chest beside his chair. He pondered his response. "Well," he said. "I guess it's just over twenty million, give or take a few mil." His chest puffed out a bit and a slight sneer crossed his face, then vanished.

"Huh," I said. "I thought it would be more than that."

His face contorted and I could see anger just below the surface. Walter was not good at hiding his feelings. He said, "Well, Sport, how much money you got?"

"Enough to get back home on, I guess. Let's see. I've paid the rent and light bill for this month. If I don't eat too much, I think I can make it to payday."

"Sorry to hear that."

"It's OK, Walter. Well anyway, I'm going below to take a dump," I said.

Walter's ears flattened and turned a bright red. I knew he didn't want a poor person stinking up the boat. He didn't say anything though.

After a few minutes I emerged from below. "You got any air freshener, Walter? Man, it stinks down there," I said, waving my hand back and forth in front of my nose. I watched Walter as the muscles in his back tightened and laughed to myself.

I sat back down and propped my feet up on the ice chest, making sure he could see my K-Mart shoes. "Now back to those poor folks..."

"Shut the hell up about those damned poor folks, you redneck hick."

I sat back and silently watched the girls as they paraded along the dock. A well tanned brunette smiled in our direction. I gave her a gap-toothed grin and laughed as she turned away in disgust. Walter looked at me and said, "You're really a dumb bastard, aren't you?"

Suddenly, Walter's eyes bulged slightly. He groaned, grabbed his left arm and then his chest. A second later, he vomited all over the teak deck. He fell out of his seat and rolled over on the floor. He looked at me with hatred in his eyes. I jumped up from my seat and straddled him. It was too late. I could see his life fading away.

I shook my head as I pulled out my cell phone and dialed 911. "Better poor than dead, Walter. Better poor than dead."

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### CIVICS LESSON

"Pass the salt down here, old man." said my nephew.

I flipped him the bird and he laughed. There was always a light banter between the two of us. I picked up the salt and pepper and handed both shakers to him. I knew the next thing he would want would be the pepper. He was pretty predictable.

"So, what are you working on in school?" I asked.

"Just the usual stuff, I guess. I got to write up a report about how the government is set up in Washington."

"That shouldn't be much of a problem," I said.

"I don't know. It's confusing as hell to me."

"There ain't much to it as far as I can tell. I'll tell you what I know about it, but I ain't gonna write your report for you."

Brad looked down. He hated writing and was always trying to con somebody else into doing his work for him. "I've read it over and over in my civics book, but it just don't make no sense at all to me. Can you make it easy to understand?"

"I think so," I said.

"Let me get my notebook," he said. He wandered to the back of the house and fumbled around in his backpack for a while. He got half-way back to the table and said, "Crap. I forgot my pen."

A couple of minutes later he was seated across the table from me, ready to write. I leaned back in my chair and took a swig of Coors Lite.

"Well," I said, "We're just going to talk about the government up in Washington. Not any kind of state or town governments."

"That's what I need to know about," he said.

"First off, picture a cardboard box divided up into three sections. The first box is for the president and his minions, the second box is for the congress, and the third box is for the justices." Brad sat there kind of blank looking so I said, " You can draw this out on your pad if you want to."

"That's a good idea," he said. He sketched out the diagram.

"Now in the box for congress, divide that in half. One of the boxes is for the Senate and the other is for the House of Representatives."

"OK," he said. "Got it."

"Now, divide each box in half. One of them boxes is for the Republicans and the other is for the Democrats. Sometimes, folks will say that they are independents, but it's not enough to make much difference. So, we'll just say its Democrats and Republicans."

"What are Democrats and Republicans?" he asked.

"Well, Democrats are jackasses and Republicans are fat assed elephants. In real life, both are beasts of burden and are a help to the common man; people that have to work for a living. Sometimes elephants will show up in the circus as well. In the world of politics though, neither of them will lift a finger to do anything for the common man. They are all just show animals."

"Now, the presidents box, which is called the administration, contains the president, the vice-president, and their cabinet members. This is about 17 people. We'll just count the important ones for this exercise though. There are a bunch of other people there that do the real work."

"The president, VP, and cabinet members don't do any work?"

"They say they do, but you couldn't tell it by me. Now, there are nine people in the box with the justices in it. The house was about 435 at the last count and the senate has 100."

"That's a bunch of people," my nephew said.

"That it is, my boy, but it's just the tip of the iceberg."

"Now we have to break these out by either Democrats or Republicans. In the House of Representatives there are about 234 Republicans and 201 Democrats. The Senate has 56 Democrats and 46 Republicans. The Supreme Court calls themselves conservatives and liberals instead of Republicans and Democrats, but they are about the same thing for the most part. That's another issue that's pretty complicated. You'll learn that politicians just say what it takes to get elected no matter what they really think. Right now there are five conservatives and 4 liberals on the bench. You can count all the administration as Democrats. These numbers change every couple of years though."

My nephew was furiously scribbling these numbers in his notepad. "OK, got it," he said. "What else do I need to know?"

"Now, we are going to represent each of these positions with cat turds. Use the numbers I gave you just now and imagine that you are putting that number of cat turds in each box. Now, one more thing. As the cat turds age, they become brittle, dry, white, and begin to lose their smell. The newer cat turds are fresh, sticky, brown, and stink to high heaven. Over time, the older cat turds will fade away to nothing. The fresher cat turds will eventually replace the old cat turds and new fresh cat turds will be thrown into the box. The stink never goes away though."

"So, Uncle Wayne, what you are telling me is that the federal government is nothing but a bunch of cat turds, no matter which party they belong to or what branch they work for."

"I knew you would understand, my boy. You have just summed up the federal government in one sentence."

My nephew finished his notes and sat back with a look of enlightment on his otherwise dull face. I was proud of the boy for coming to a quick understanding of such a complicated subject. I finished off the Coors Lite and pitched it into the trash can, stretched, and walked over to the beer fridge for another.

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### THE FIGHT

Ezra sat on the bottom step and watched as the old tom cat stalked his red rooster. The cat eased closer and closer; the rooster seemed oblivious. Ezra reached down and picked up a rock. He drew back and side armed it at the cat. He yelled, "Get out of here you damned cat. Leave my rooster alone." He threw another rock at the cat for good measure. The black and gray cat disappeared into the underbrush. The rooster kept on pecking shit.

Where the hell is that woman, Ezra wondered. It's getting to be about supper time and she ain't even got the stove hot yet. He fidgeted with the callous on the side of his big toe. Looks like I might starve to death, he thought.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ezra noticed a cloud of dust rising on the old dirt road. He stood up and shaded his eyes with the palm of his hand. Someone was coming this way. He watched and the cloud of red dust kept getting bigger and bigger.

A minute later, he could see a large wagon being pulled by two mules. A boy was standing in front of the seat, popping the reigns and driving the mules hard. He hollered, "Yaaaagh, Yaaaagh." They were heading this way, hell bent for leather.

Ezra hitched up his old overalls and walked barefooted out to the edge of the road. He could see the wagon plainly now. That looked like Stanley Brown's boy, he thought. The boy kept popping the reigns. As he approached Ezra, he pulled up on the reigns and yelled, "Whoa boys, Whoa." Dust flew everywhere.

When the mules stopped, Turkey Brown jumped down and ran toward Ezra. "Mr. Ezra, Mr. Ezra," he called. "You got to come quick, Mr. Ezra."

"What's going on, boy?"

"There's a big fight just up the road. Mr. Stone is wailing on Mrs. Ezra. They is fighting something awful."

"He's beating up on Mrs. Ezra?" Ezra asked.

"Yes sir. He's on top of her and she's hollering to beat the band. I think he's killing her."

Ezra ran back toward the house to get his boots. "Turn that wagon around, Turkey. I need to get down there fast."

"It's real scary, Mr. Ezra. Both of them are nekkid."

"Ezra stopped and turned around. "Nekkid, you say?"

"Yes sir, Mr. Ezra. They's both nekkid as jaybirds."

"What was Mrs. Ezra saying?"

"She was hollering for Jesus. She kept saying, "Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus. I reckon she thinks Mr. Stone is fixing to kill her."

Well, that's why I ain't got no dinner, thought Ezra. "Did they say anything else, Turk?"

"I heard Mr. Stone saying that this was all her fault. If she had not shot him that squirrel, he would have gone on about his business. I didn't see no gun or dead squirrel though."

"I want you to stay here boy. I'm gonna borry your wagon for a few minutes. I'll take care of that rotten apple."

Ezra went in the house and came back a minute later with his 12 gauge and a handful of shells. He dug around in the corner of the porch until he found a rope. "Go over to the well and get yourself some water boy. You look dry as a bone. I'll be back in a minute. If that man's done killed Mrs. Ezra, you might have to be a witness to the sheriff."

Turkey Brown went over to the well and drew a bucket of water. Ezra jumped in the wagon and raced off down the road.

A few minutes later, Ezra saw Mrs. Ezra's carriage and a sorrel horse tied to a tree by the road. He drew up short and jumped down off the wagon with his shotgun and the rope. Quietly, he eased through the bushes until he heard voices.

"That weren't a bad piece of tail, Mrs. Ezra."

"Glad you enjoyed it, Mr. Stone."

They were both standing in the edge of Persimmon Branch as naked as the day they were born. Mr. Stone got a handful of water and washed himself off. "Got to get cleaned up good, Mrs. Ezra. Bernice can smell another woman's thang a mile away."

Mrs. Ezra laughed. "Well, we don't want that, do we, Mr. Stone. I don't have to worry about that much myself. Mr. Ezra couldn't tell the whang of another man's root from a pile of chicken shit. He smells so bad I cain't hardly get within ten feet of him."

Ezra bristled. Maybe she's right, he thought. Anyway, I don't want to smell another man's root. He eased around the edge of the bushes and then stepped out into the clearing near the stream.

"Evening folks," Ezra said.

Mrs. Ezra jumped back, covered her mouth with one hand and her cooter with the other. "My word, Mr. Ezra. You should have announced yourself."

Mr. Stone's root shriveled when he heard Ezra's voice. "Mr. Ezra, it ain't what you're thinking," he said.

"How so, Mr. Stone? You standing here nekkid with my old lady in the woods talking about what you just done. And then there's the boys testimony. Turkey Brown said he done seen you two fighting nekkid here in the woods."

Ezra reached down and and picked up all of their clothes. He handed Mr. Stone's clothes to him and said, "Here. Put these on."

"What about me?" asked Mrs. Ezra.

"Don't you never mind," said Ezra.

Slowly, Mr. Stone dressed himself, whimpering all the while. Ezra picked up the rope and with some difficulty tied him to a pine tree. Mrs. Ezra was quietly sobbing. She said, "Ezra. There's no need to get all riled up about this. It was just a little bit of tail."

Ezra slapped Mrs. Ezra across the face and knocked her to the ground. She looked up in horror as he leveled the shotgun at her. Then he leaned it against a tree and stood over Mrs. Ezra. He drew back a strong hand and smacked her across the face. He hit her again and again. Minutes later, Mrs. Ezra lay dead on the ground.

Mr. Stone was crying and trying to free himself from the rope. Ezra walked over and untied him. "Now I'm gonna give you a quick head start, Mr. Stone. Let's see how fast you can get out of here."

Mr. Stone took quick advantage of the offer and started through the woods as fast as his shaking legs would carry him. Ezra leveled the shotgun and fired a single blast. Mr. Stone cried out, dropped to the ground, and then began to crawl through the leaves. He was whimpering and moaning. Ezra snagged him by the back of the shirt and dragged him back to the clearing. He laid Mr. Stone down by Mrs. Ezra's lifeless body.

"Catch up on your palavering, Mr. Stone. I'll be back in a minute."

Ezra walked out to the road, climbed up into the wagon and eased the mules and wagon down into the woods to the clearing; stopping under a tall oak tree. He jumped down off the wagon and retrieved the rope he had used to tie Mr. Stone. He laid it out and decided it was long enough. He fashioned a crude noose and then threw the rope over a stout tree limb. He tied it off to the trunk of the oak.

Mr. Stone was ashen faced and shivering. His breath came in short gasps. "What are you going to do, Ezra?"

"What does it look like, Mr. Stone? You cain't just go around tearing up a man's piece of tail like that."

"Please Ezra."

"Be quiet Mr. Stone." Ezra helped him up off the ground and led him to the wagon. He picked Mr. Stone up and threw him into the back. Then he got into the back and helped Mr. Stone to his feet. He put the noose around Stone's neck.

Snot dribbled down Mr. Stone's face as he begged Ezra for his life.

"Let's not make this any worse than it already is, Mr. Stone." Ezra looked up to the sky and said, "Lord, Mr. Stone here, and my wife, Mrs. Ezra done gone and committed the sin of adultery. They should not be forgiven for their sins. I would appreciate it if you would punish both of them appropriately."

Ezra raised a tree branch and slapped the closest mule across the ass. "On to the packing house, Mr. Stone. On to the packing house."

Later that evening, Mr. Ezra sat on the steps of his old house talking to the sheriff. He said, "Sheriff, the boy told me what was happening down in the woods. I went down there and sure enough the two of them were there just like the boy said. Mr. Stone had done dressed but Mrs. Ezra was still in the natural state. He had done raped and beat her to death. When I showed up, he took off a running and I shot him in the leg. I saved the county some money and went ahead and hung him right where he was. That's all there is to it."

Turkey Brown stood there and shook his head yes when the sheriff asked if the facts were correct.

Sheriff Barnwell said, "Well, Ezra. I don't guess there's any more to it than that. You done the right thing, stringing him up and all. You want me to carry Mrs. Ezra's body down to the undertaker for you?"

"Well, thank you, Sheriff. That would be the Christian thing to do. Tell Paul, I'll be down there tomorrow to bury her. I'll bring him a bushel of peas for payment if that's all right."

"I'm sure it will be, Ezra. Now you have a good night, you hear?"

Ezra sat down on the porch and watched as the sheriff and the Brown boy rode away with the two bodies in the back of the wagon. He leaned back against the porch railing and gazed at the star filled sky. Then Ezra sniffed loudly and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his big hands. He sat forward, folded his arms across his long legs and sighed.

My God! I shore am hungry, he thought.

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### ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J. R. Oneal was born in South Carolina and spent many years in the Pee Dee Region of that state. After retiring from the corporate world and venturing into the world of small business and part-time teaching, Oneal finally settled in Southwest Virginia to pursue his lifelong ambition of writing.

Oneal writes fast fiction and short stories and is currently working on a novel of life in Nineteenth Century South Carolina. He has published a book on his family history and a biography of his work life.

This is J. R. Oneal's first publication of short stories.

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