(Author’s note: There’s a lot -- I mean a LOT – of profanity in this story. Though it may seem so, it’s not really gratuitous; I always strive for accuracy in dialogue, and this is how a lot of the people I grew up with talk. The story was originally written a few years ago as an exercise in Joe R. Landsdale-type White Trash Horror, and the sort of people in those stories cuss more on a Sunday morning than I do in a year. I nearly threw it out recently because, as a Christian, I don’t feel that it’s edifying to use this sort of language myself, let alone put it out publicly under my name. At the same time, I think this is a well-written story, with solid characters and a nice little twist at the end, and I’m reluctant to just get rid of it. The censoring, then, is an unhappy medium. It’s not a great compromise, but it’s the best I’ve got. I hope it doesn’t detract from the story for you. Enjoy, and feel free to let me know what you think. Thanks.)

ay Odom jumped, spilling beer all down the front of his jeans. “Damn, son! That part always scares the s*** out of me! Every damn time!”

“Lookee there, y’all! Ol’ Ray done p***ed hisself!” Little Red shouted. You could always count on Little Red to say something like that.

“You better shut the f*** up, boy.” Ray was doing his best to wipe the beer off with a grease rag from his pocket. “Just bought these f***in’ things and done went and spilled beer on ‘em …”

“Botha y’all better shut up ‘fore I kick both your as**es. I’m tryin’ to watch this damn movie.” The two younger men were silent except for Little Red’s giggling and Ray’s muttered cussing. When Howard spoke, everybody listened.

Howard was the one who had bought the beer and the movie, the first from his uncle at the Kwik-Mart and the second from a lady at the flea market who didn’t even bother claiming her tapes weren’t copies. At two dollars a pop, she didn’t expect anybody to argue with her.

Howard was the only one old enough to buy beer. The other three -- Ray, Little Red, and the passed-out-drunk Stanley -- were all nineteen. They were high school dropouts, except for Stanley. Stanley was the brains of the operation. He was smart enough to get totally wasted before Howard did. Howard was a mean drunk sometimes.

The other two were pretty much just stupid. Howard called them the Two Stooges. Stanley had seen Alice in Wonderland -- he loved those old Disney movies -- and called them Tweedledum and Tweedledummer. Ray quit school on his sixteenth birthday; he just walked into the principal’s office, dropped his pants, and told her that if she wanted him to stay in school she’d just have to suck his big fat hairy d***. When she didn’t, he walked out, disappointed, hiking up his pants as he stomped out through the door.

Little Red -- his name was really Mike, but he had his daddy’s bright orange hair -- hung on until he was seventeen, because his cousin wouldn’t hire him in his welding shop until then. He quit tenth grade more quietly than Ray. He just stopped going to school. When the county deputy came to find him, Big Red told the officer he didn’t know where the f*** his boy was and really didn’t give a rat’s a**, but when he found him he was gonna kick the livin’ s*** out of him for gettin’ that damn Horton slut pregnant again. When Little Red came dragging in three days later, they proceeded to beat the hell out of each other until Mrs. Red came onto the porch with a shotgun and threatened to kill them both.

“Where the f***’s Fairy-as**? He was supposed to be here twenty … thir … a while ago,” Howard said, trying to remember which hand was for hours and which was for minutes. “We’re about out of beer. Hey, Snotley,” he bounced a couple of cans off Stanley’s snoring head, “you drank all the f***in’ beer. F***er.”

“Here, a**hole,” a voice said from the front door. Now quit your b****in’, y’little faggot.”

Ferris slammed the door and walked in, tossing a case of Milwaukee’s Best onto Little Red’s balls as if it didn’t weigh anything. He was tall and thin, and his clothes hung loosely on him. His black Stihl hat blended in with his shaggy hair, and beneath the dirt and grease his skin was pale.

“Damn, Fairy-a** -- I mean, Ferris. D’ya have to get the Beast every time? That s*** tastes like horse p***.” Ray wrinkled his nose, but greedily grabbed a can when the blue-faced Little Red ripped the box open.

“We can’t all suck off your momma’s t** like you do,” Ferris answered. “Some of us gotta work for a livin’.”

“What took you so long, Fairy-a**?” Howard was the only one who could use the nickname without earning a beating. He and Ferris worked at the same plant, Howard on days, Ferris at night.

“Just got off. S***-for-brains Billy wanted that press runnin’ for Monday.”

“That motherf***er.”

“Yep.”

“Hell, overtime’s overtime, though.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“Hey, Howard, you wanna beer?” Ray held out one of the lukewarm cans from Ferris’ case.

“Why would I wanna drink that s*** when I got two Buds right here?” Howard asked, offering one to Ferris, who declined.

Ray looked confused. “Why didn’t you tell me you had Buds left?”

“’Cause I hate to see you in pain.”

Ray was even more puzzled. “Why would I be in pain?”

“’Cause I woulda had to kick your a** when you asked for one o’ my Buds.”

“Oh.” Ray shook his head, then went back to sucking his beer.

“What’re y’all watchin’?” Ferris asked.

“Same s*** as last week,” Howard answered, tossing the tape case over to him.

The cover read, in huge red dripping-blood-looking letters, Klu Klux Klampires. Beneath the title was a grainy color picture of a menacing white hood and robe looming over a pudgy, half-naked black woman. The woman looked bored. Beneath the picture was written, “THEY HATE NIGGERS … BUT THEY LOVE NIGGER BLOOD!!!!” in the same runny-looking lettering.

“Ray piss hisself again?” Ferris laughed.

“Damn straight. Them vampires is the s***, ain’t they?” Howard drained his beer and bounced the can of Stanley, who actually stirred this time. “Little f***er, drinkin’ all the beer.”

“Hey, man, he’s the brains of this operation.”

They sat there watching the movie for a while, Howard drinking, Ray and Little Red cussing and fighting until someone threatened to beat the shit out of them. When it was over, Howard threw a beer can at Ray and said, “Get up and hit rewind.”

Unsteadily, Ray did it. “Y’all wanna see it again?”

“Sure, why not,” Ferris answered. “Ain’t but about the fiftieth time we watched it, a**hole.”

He took to throwing beer cans at the younger boy. He saw why Howard did it all the time. It was fun as s***, watching a couple of drunks try and dodge point-blank shots.

Little Red was nearly asleep. He slumped over onto the snoring Stanley, who responded by kicking him in the head with his steel-toes without opening his eyes. The redhead groaned and fell backward, cracking his head on the remains of the couch behind him. He yelled, but didn’t rise.

“Hey, Ray,” Howard said cheerfully. “You ever tell Fairy-a** ‘bout that time you f***ed that ol’ bluetick o’ Jeff’s?”

“What the hell’re you talkin’ about, Howard?” Ray looked nervous and took a huge gulp of the Beast.

“Never mind, I’ll tell ‘im. You just shut up and drink your p*** water.”

Howard drained his beer and threw the can at Little Red. “Seems Ray was out huntin’ with Jeff Gould last year --“

“Jeff Gould … you talkin’ ‘bout ol’ Smiley?” Ferris asked. “You was out with that queerbait?”

“Yeah,” Howard cut in before Ray could answer, “him and ol’ Smiley Gould was out huntin’ last year, and when they finally found the dogs and got back to the truck it was damn near midnight. Jeff had a coupla cases in his truck, so they decided to get s***-faced and stay out there that night instead of drivin’ all the way back home. They was down in Coosa County somewhere, wherever Smiley’s daddy’s from.

“Anyway, they was pretty well f***ed up when Ray looks over at Smiley and says, ‘Hey, Jeff, when you gonna sell me that 12-gauge of yours?’ Jeff says, ‘When Hell freezes over, you little s***.’

“Ray says, ‘Come on, Jeff, how much you want for it?’ So Jeff just smiles and says, ‘I’ll tell you what, Ray. You go f*** ol’ Daisy Duke and I’ll give you the f***in’ gun.’ Daisy Duke’s his ol’ bluetick.”

“No s***, Sherlock. Just finish the story.”

“F*** you, man. So anyway, Ray here disappears around the other side of the truck. Smiley figures he’s just pukin’ or takin’ a s*** or somethin’, but then Ray don’t come back for a while, so Smiley goes around to see what the little numbf***’s doin’. And there’s Ray, chokin’ that chicken like there ain’t no tomorrow.

“’What the f***’re you doin?’ Smiley says. Then Ray looks up at him, real serious, and says, ‘I gotta get it up if I’m gonna f*** that dog.’ A few minutes later he goes around to the dog box and gets ol’ Daisy Duke out and starts ridin’ her like a Hog on a bad piece o’ road. So Smiley just laughs his a** off and jumps in the truck and drives off, with Ray standin’ there with his pants around his feet, up to his balls in that dog.

“Ray finds a pay phone and calls me up at two o’ clock in the damn morning to come down there and get him. I did, just so’s I could beat the livin’ hell out of ‘im for wakin’me up in the middle of the night. I get down there and there’s Ray, sittin’ outside this gas station hugged up to the dog, both of ‘am freezin’ their a**es off. He told me the whole story on the way back, and in the mornin’ I go down to Smiley’s trailer.

“I told him what Ray told me, and then I ask him, ‘Is it true that you promised this boy your shotgun if he’d f*** your dog, and then when he did you wouldn’t pay up?’

“’Damn straight,’ he says. ‘You gonna do somethin’ about it?’ ‘F*** no,’ I says, ‘I just wanted to know if it was true. Boy wants to go around f***in’ dogs, it’s his business. You’re damn sure gonna have some ugly-a** puppies, though.’

“S’far as I know, he still ain’t got that gun, do you, Ray?”

Ray didn’t answer. He was trying furiously to down another beer; he’d had about six since

Howard started telling the story.

Howard and Ferris just laughed.

“Why do we always watch that same damn movie every weekend?” Ferris asked.

“Dunno,” Howard said in a tired voice. It was just after four in the morning. “It’s just what we do.”

“Well, it’s kinda f***in’ stupid, you ask me.”

“Nobody f***in’ asked you, Fairy-a**.”

“F*** off, s***-for-brains.”

The moments passed in silence for a while.

“I mean, it’s a pretty stupid movie,” Ferris said, chucking a can at Stanley. “It ain’t no Lost Boys, that’s for damn sure.”

“Yeah, but The Lost Boys is about twenty bucks up at Wal-Mart, and Klu Klux Klampires is two bucks at Dixieland Flea Market. You wanna spend your money on The Lost Boys, go right ahead. Way I figure, eighteen bucks’ll buy you enough beer so you won’t care how s***ty the movies is.”

“Not if you’re drinkin’ with these little piss-ants.”

“Yeah, no s***.”

“’Sides, it’s supposed to be Ku Klux Klan, not Klu Klux Klan.”

“Long as they’re gettin’ rid o’ niggers, I don’t care if they call theirselves Big Jack and the Nutsacks.”

“Got a point there, Howard Mr. Cates, sir.”

Ferris rose from the trash-covered floor and planted the pointed toe of his boot in Stanley’s side. “Hey Snotley,” he yelled, “get the f*** up. You gotta drive me home.”

“Nnnnrrrghrrhewww,” said Stanley.

“Get up ‘fore I kick you in your damn head, you little sonuvab****.”

“I’m gettin’, I’m gettin’.” Stanley rolled over, the ratty carpet tattooed into his face. He kept rolling over until he was in his original position and resumed snoring.

Bending over, Ferris planted his left boot on Stanley’s neck and grabbed the boy’s ear, jerking up on it. Stanley screamed.

“I said get the f*** up, a**hole. Am I gonna have to kick your a** and then make you take me home?” He let go of the ear and Stanley’s head smacked down onto the hard floor.

Stanley managed to go back to sleep.

“Aw, f*** him,” Howard said. “I’ll take you home.” He made as if to get up, but Ferris shook his head.

“Naw, man, Ray’s goin’ that way, too. He can drop me off.” He crouched down next to Ray’s ear.

“Oh, Raaaaay,” he crooned. “Raaaaaaaaaayyyyy … get the f*** up and take me home now, you little piss-ant s***-for-brains motherf***ker!”

Ray yelled for his momma, and then sat up, rubbing his head. “Jeez, I’m up already. You got some gas money?”

“F*** no, I ain’t got no gas money. I bought beer for your sorry sleepin’ a**. Now get in the f***in’ car.”

“Alright, alright, jeez f***in’ … ” he muttered, stumbling out the door. A moment later, the rumbling of a badly-tuned 350 filled Howard’s tiny house.

“I’ll catch you later, man,” Ferris said, walking out the door.

“Hey, man, you got a few beers left. Take ‘em with you.”

“F*** that. You know I don’t drink that s***. Take it easy.”

“Man, I don’t even know where the f*** you live.”

Ray was driving through a thick fog rolling off of the river. “I can’t even see s***.”

“You don’t need to see s***. Just turn when I say turn.”

“How the hell’d you get to Howard’s, anyway?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just worry about stayin’ on the damn road.”

“Alright, you’re the boss.”

“Damn straight.”

They drove for a couple more miles. “Turn right here,” Ferris said.

“Turn right?”

“You see a right turn, f***nuts? I said turn, and do it right here. F*** a duck, you better be glad God looks after fools and drunks. Well, don’t stop. Keep drivin’.”

“I didn’t even know there was anything out here.”

“There ain’t a whole lot.” Ferris was silent for a moment. “Hey, Ray, you really like all that vampire s***?”

“Yeah, it’s alright, y’know. I mean, it’d be kinda scary if it was real, but some of it’s pretty b*****in’.”

“Yeah, I know exactly what you mean. You really f*** that dog?”

“Aw, come on, Ferris …”

“Naw, man, I’m serious. I ain’t gonna tell nobody. Did you?”

“S***, man … yeah. Yeah, I did. But I was f***in’ tore up, man, and that’s one nice gun, y’know …”

“Yeah, man. S***, it ain’t no big deal. It ain’t like you’re ever gonna do somethin’ like that again. Hell, you ain’t never gonna f*** nothin’ ever again.”

Ray assumed his usual puzzled look. “What makes you say tha --“