“Ways I see it, it’s either the moonshine or the women. I ‘spose a combination of both, rather, now that I really think about. And ol’ Honeycutt himself’s got both of em’ locked up tighter than Fort Knox round here.” The overweight and underthought Ricky Rooney paused in his instance of wisdom to deposit a wad of Skoal the color of burnt charcoal into the pocket of his lower lip. Spittle the color of wet ashtray slid out the slits in his tobacco-stained teeth as he spoke.“Face it, Slade. You just ain’t got what it takes to compete with someone like that. You saw how it turned out for us last time we got mixed up his dealings, nearly heading home with our heads blown off. We’re best off staying in our holler, grabbing every bit we can. Hell, I know I’d love my fill.”
That’d be a pretty tall order to fill you all the way up, buddy. I checked my hip for my simple P320 on one end and clip point shanked to the other, took a deep breath, and stared out at the decrepit frame of Wally’s Welding as the moon bathed the structure in a lunar glow. To the rare traveler passing through, Wallace Wyckoff’s “office” consisted of a small wooden outpost spanning no longer than 200 square feet, flanked by yards of sunburnt grass speckled with assorted machine parts. Everyone in Mercering, though, knows the rail thin, milky-eyed man bearing the establishment’s name as overseer of Honeycutt’s regional liquor ring, leaving whispers from locals as just that, mere consonants caught softly in the wind and gone.
“So as I was saying,” crooned Rooney, picking at a hangnail while a mosquito landed uptop his bald head soaked in sweat, “you know I’ll cover you, I’ll always have your back. Though I’s sure know there’s a better way to make a name for yourself.”
I flicked the insect and watched his torso take flight towards the endless valleys of the Appalachian mountains flanking the outpost, the vast hope and struggle buried in its hills kissing the setting sun to the west. This state, this town, this mountain, it’s all I’ve ever known. It’s as familiar to me as the paper cuts I would get sealing Daddy’s envelopes, packages delivered to men of walks smelling of whiskey and deceit. When I would feel that first prick hit home and watch the crimson trickle down my fingers in a coat of sticky red warmth, all I could think was the path laid out for me as I soak the Earth in my spill.
That’s rightly how I’m feeling as I motion for Rooney to follow in my crouched approach to the slanted hickory door, crickets singing their song of the night for my soundtrack. Just get in, and get out. Grab some ‘shine, some cash, make a statement. Then the mountain is yours. Spill some blood of your enemies, for a change. Then you’ll start getting that respect you deserve.
I line up with the wood, silently mouth off to three and kick in the entryway with my pistol drawn. At first, all I can see are the outlines of the massive mahogany desk and raised steel safe in the furthest corner of the room, all I can hear is the heavy breathing of Rooney as he steadies his body from the ascent. The room is pitch black, though the silhouettes of jugs and money stacked on the hardwood floor are unmistakable; treasures just waiting to be claimed by those bold enough to grab them. While the strange nature of just how easy it was to break in begins to dawn on me as I see the shapes of heads emerge from the shadows and as I hear the cocking of shotguns shatter the silence with their symphony, it isn’t until the cold metal collides with the back of my head and I begin to slip into the valley of dreaming that the realization finally hits home. I’m imagining a body covered in paper cuts bursting at the touch as someone spits and says with a mouth full of something, “Told you to stay home, Sladey-boy.”
~ fin ~
Brandon Green is a teacher of English, lover of literature, and purveyor of punk rock. He currently resides in Staten Island, New York with his lovely wife and (diabolical) dog. Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated by this author, who is currently in the process of planning more work(s) to come.
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