Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors

by Ochse, Weston

  Carl looked into the hallway mirror and watched the bearded face of Russ Wilson turn red with embarrassment.

  “You still there, Levine?” Russ asked. “I have a better suggestion. How about if I come over and hit you with a shovel, or actually, I mean me. Jesus, this is getting confusing!”

  “No way. You’re not coming near me. I’ll call you back, Wilson. I need some time to catch my breath.”

  “Before you go, Levine, I got one last thing left to say. If this is some kind of permanent deal, I think I got myself gypped in a major way here. Almost like trading in a Porsche for a Yugo. You take care of that fine piece of machinery you got there, Levine. Because I’m going to take it back.”

  Carl hung up the phone and inhaled deeply. He walked over to the sofa and sat down, his tired breath escaping his newly overweight body like the hot gas of a farm animal. At least I’m not crazy, he thought, because if I am, then Russ is on the same ride.

  Carl looked down at the colorful, but ugly, flowered shirt that he was wearing with strong aversion. The side of the food-stained shirt was ripped, and he could see Russ’ obscenely fat stomach protruding from within the folds. All his life he had eaten well, steering clear of high fat foods and red meat. Now he was sitting here with an immense beer belly that he had acquired in seconds.

  He was about to get up and call Russ and try to figure something out when an evil smile took control of his bearded face. I probably won’t be in this body permanently, he thought. It’s time to give old Russ Wilson a little payback for the many years of harassment. It’s take to take old Russ on a little adventure.

  Carl walked out of his house, whistling an old disco tune. He saw Russ, or rather he saw himself driving away, skidding the wheels of his dirty station wagon as he went. Probably went to get himself a therapist, he thought. Hell, I’m badly in need of one myself.

  He got in his car and drove into town, the smile never leaving his face.

  “Now, let me get this straight,” the tattoo artist said to Russ. “You want me to write ‘I love Jesus!’ on your forehead?”

  “Yes,” Russ said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his neighbor’s wallet. “If you’re worried about the money, I have it right here.”

  “This ain’t about the money, pal. Don’t you want to at least think about this? Okay, you like Jesus and all, but do you really need to turn your forehead into a billboard? I mean, I’m not into religion, but don’t you have a better way of professin’ this kinda love? Can’t you just donate money to your church or something? Roll up your sleeve and I’ll put it on your arm.”

  Russ shook his head back and forth, his perpetual grin never leaving his face. “It’s for a friend.”

  The tattoo artist sat back against the counter. “A friend? Why don’t your friend come down and get this? If you ask me, this is pretty far to go for a friend.”

  Russ began to get up out of the chair. “Look, if you won’t do it, then I’m sure that there are people who will.”

  The artist put his heavily callused hand up against Russ’ chest. “Sit back down, pal. I’ll do it. I just wanted to make sure that you really wanted this.” He pulled a waiver out from his desk. “You’re gonna have to sign this, I ain’t getting my ass sued.”

  Russ sat back in the chair and began to rub his hands over Carl’s bald head. “I’ll sign anything. My friend is going to love this.”

  The artist picked up his needle. “All right, any special color or font you want this in?”

  “How about a green New Times Roman?” Russ asked. “Can you put a little red heart on my cheek too?”

  When the beautician spun the chair around towards the mirror, Carl couldn’t help but laugh at the reflection of his fat neighbor.

  “I told you it was too drastic for you,” the beautician said. “You’re not the only one who is going to be laughing. Want me to at least shave off the cherry red van dyke mustache?”

  “I’m laughing because it looks great. Leave the mustache just like it is, thank you very much. My friend is going to love it. This is just the way he always would have wanted it.”

  Carl’s hair, or rather Russ’ hair, was permed up into an enormously high, stiff Afro. It rose at least three feet from the top of his head and it was bluer than the waters of the Caribbean. He had gotten the beard shaved, leaving only a droopy mustache that hung down about three inches from his chin. He smirked at his reflection and then broke out into hysterics again.

  “You really do like it?” she asked.

  “Miss, I love it. Are you sure you didn’t learn your trade in heaven? I only want you to do one more thing.”

  “Just don’t tell anybody that you got this makeover from me, okay? What do you want?”

  “Can you put a big-ass flower in it?”

  When Carl, stroking his long mustache, pulled back into his driveway, he saw that Russ was still out somewhere with his body. Ka-pow was sitting on the lawn, giving out a low growl when he saw that his master looked like a clown.

  Carl reached up and patted his Afro, staring at the tiny poodle. “Even you can’t piss me off now, you little fuckball. Wait until your master gets a peep at his new look.”

  He walked into the house and threw his car keys on the front table. When he glanced up into the hallway mirror he immediately fell to the floor, overwhelmed with laughter.

  He rolled to his side and got up from the floor clumsily as he was still unaccustomed to having such a rotund body. He walked over to his stereo and popped in one of his favorite discs, the Bee Gees’ Greatest Hits. Back in the seventies, many considered him the disco king. One time he was even on American Bandstand. Whenever he was overwhelmed with joy, he would put in that disc and start pulling out moves from his bag of dancing tricks.

  When Jive Talkin’ began to blast through his house, he began to jiggle around, his fleshy body vibrating the floorboards. As he shook his wide ass back and forth, he realized that he was not as good of a dancer in Russ’ overweight body. Deciding that he was not going to get too far moving his newly acquired heavy body, he resorted to his repertoire of dazzling hand movements, each hand flashing out with zest. He didn’t hear his doorbell, or see his front door swing slowly open.

  Carl looked up and saw himself standing there-mouth hung open in astonishment. His eyes widened in stupefaction when he saw the green ‘I love Jesus!” tattoo written on his bald forehead. A large red heart dotted the cheek like an expressionate exclamation point. Russ returned the dismay, his mouth flapping open and closed mechanically at seeing himself with a blue Afro.

  Carl grabbed his remote control and turned off the stereo. “Wilson! What in the hell did you do to my face!”

  “Me! What did you do to my fucking hair! I look like a goddamn faggot! And you’re dancing my body around like that only makes it look worse!”

  Carl walked up to Russ and examined the tattoo. “That’s not real, is it?”

  “Damn right it’s real, Levine! I know how much you love Jesus and all!”

  Carl grabbed Russ by the shirt, which unnerved him because it made him feel like he was attacking himself. “You bastard! Tattoos are permanent! At least you can always cut this hair off!”

  Russ pushed him away. “Oh well. Maybe you can get it burned off or something.”

  Carl screamed in frustration and ran down the hallway, his arms waving in rage, before slamming the bathroom door closed.

  Russ walked over to the hallway mirror and began to examine his tattoo. “Boy, Levine!” he shouted to the bathroom door. “You should be thanking me! This tattoo is going to guarantee you a place in heaven! Old Saint Peter is going to open them gates real fast for you!”

  Carl exited the bathroom, his jaw working up and down as if he was eating something. He swallowed exaggeratedly and said, “You goddamn son of a bitch. You had to take it too far didn’t you, Wilson? All I did was go and mess up your hair a little bit.” Angrily he pulled the flower from his Afro and threw it to the floor. “You had to g
o and get me a fucking tattoo. You had to go and scar me.” He turned away and headed into the kitchen.

  Russ shrugged and followed him in. Carl was digging through a drawer of utensils. He pulled out a sharp looking knife and glared at him, unable to look very menacing in his blue tower of hair. “What are you doing, Levine? What are you going to do, stab me?” He began to back away fearfully. “Don’t forget that this is your body that I happen to be in.”

  Carl put his hand down on the counter and slammed the knife down, cutting off his thumb with a thick squirt of blood. He looked over at his enemy, his face beaming triumphantly as he held the bloody hand before his face. “It’s gonna be pretty hard to button your pants now ain’t it, you fat fucking prick?”

  Russ gaped at the severed thumb. “You bastard!” He ran over to the counter and promptly slammed his mouth against the edge, shattering it into a pulpy mass of broken teeth. He looked up and began to spit teeth out one by one. “Jesus! That hurt like hell!”

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Carl said, bringing the knife up and slashing his ear off with one wet slice. The ear went spinning through the air in a red arc before falling to the floor with a sickening slap. “The codeine is just starting to kick in. What did you think I was doing in the bathroom, whipdick?” He bent over and picked up the severed ear, holding it in his open palm. “It’s gonna be pretty hard to shout out wrong answers to Jeopardy now ain’t it, Russ? Unless of course you get that close captioned I’ve been hearing so much about. They got all kinds of things for the hearing impaired these days.”

  Screaming with rage, Russ picked up a chair and slammed it over his neighbor’s head, totally forgetting that he was actually attacking himself. He brought the chair down again and again until he was sure that Carl was dead. It no longer even bothered him that he was staring down at his own corpse.

  He dropped the chair to the floor, and exhaled dejectedly. I guess I’m stuck in this body for the rest of my life, he thought, trying to ignore the pain that was rocking through his shattered mouth.

  “I don’t think so, Wilson,” Carl said.

  His skin tingling with shock, Russ looked down at the corpse. Carl was still definitely dead. He gave out a pathetic little squeak when he realized that it was he himself who had spoken aloud.

  Carl was back in his body, only now they were in there together. Carl and Russ were one.

  It gave him another jolt when he realized that he was only in control of the right side of his body. Apparently, Carl was in control of the left. Fighting madly, Carl/Russ attacked himself, the right and left sides of the body literally under separate authority.

  Carl/Russ damn near beat himself to death.

  Carl/Russ sat at the table wondering just what in the hell they were going to do. Russ’ body lay on the floor at their feet, reminding them of their situation. The tattoo was making Carl angrier all over again.

  “Don’t you go getting all pissed off,” Russ said. “I can hear everything you’re thinking. I didn’t realize you hated me this much, Baldo.”

  “Fuck you, Wilson. I want you out of my body now.”

  “Levine, do you think I’m here by my choice? Are you forgetting that my beaten corpse is rotting on your kitchen floor?”

  Carl tapped the fingers of his left hand on the table absently. He could see his reflection in the mirror. He was startled when he realized that his eyes were moving around in opposite directions, giving him the appearance of a cross-eyed cartoon character. The glaring tattoo on his forehead only worsened the situation. His right eye was looking down at the corpse on the floor, while the left was looking at himself in the mirror. It was unsettling. Was he going to have to spend the rest of his life trapped inside his own body with his enemy?

  “We’re going to have to bury the body. I’m-” Carl said, coming to the inevitable solution.

  “Bury it?” Russ asked, cutting his enemy off. “Bury it where, you ass? In the backyard like a goddamn pet!”

  “Well, actually, yes. Do you think the police are going to buy my story, you imbecile? The body of my neighbor, a person whom I hate, is lying bludgeoned on the kitchen floor. You’re the one who killed your body to begin with, in case you forgot, you dumbfuck fat ass. Do you think the cops are going to believe that we switched brains and now we’re trapped in my body together?”

  “I don’t care what they believe, Levine. I’m not going to help my enemy bury my murdered body.”

  “A murder in which you happened to commit, you borderline retard.”

  Carl’s left hand lashed out and slapped him across the face. “I’m not going to put up with your lip, Levine! I’ve had it with you and your insults!”

  The right hand whipped around in a fist and slammed into Carl/Russ’ face violently. “You’ve had it? You’ve had it?”

  Carl/Russ didn’t stop the attack until they fell into unconsciousness.

  “That cross-eyed loon in there killed his neighbor,” Kenny Joe Butler, the maintenance man said, pointing through the window of the padded room.

  “So what’s so crazy about that?” the other worker asked. “People do that shit all the time.”

  They looked through the window at the straight-jacketed man with the ‘I Love Jesus!’ tattoo. The man was having a rather heated argument with himself.

  “That’s not all, bro. He’s got multiple personality disorder, or something. He claims the neighbor that he killed is inside him. If you remove that straitjacket, he’ll beat himself into unconsciousness.”

  “You don’t say,” he said as they continued down the corridor. “That’s got to be something to see.”

  “Oh, it is. Every once in awhile we remove the jacket and watch him, uh, I mean them, go at it.”

  “Would you shut the hell up already!” Carl/Russ yelled, wriggling around in the jacket, trying desperately to break free.

  “Me! Why in the hell should I shut up, Wilson! You’re the one that’s always babbling! This is my body you know!”

  “Oh, here we go with that ‘my body’ shit again! Oh man, Levine, you better hope that I don’t break out of this jacket. God, will I fucking beat you, you bald bastard!”

  “Please! Just shut up! I’m begging you! I can’t take it! Get out of me!”

  Over the years, the arguments started to get pretty redundant.

  Fishes Dream of Lonely Things

  by Weston Ochse

  My mother told me to be careful by the creek. She made me promise never to swim there. She made me promise that if I saw anything strange to come running home. I thought she meant perverts or the homeless or crack addicts. I was wrong.

  It was Tuesday when we decided to go fishing. The house was like the pit of hell as Dad always said. I wasn’t allowed to use those words, but I knew what he meant and agreed. Just sitting on the couch was making me sweat through my clothes. David was with me and I was tired of kicking his butt on video games. He wouldn’t give up, though. He demanded to play again and again and again. I even let him win once, but he knew it and got mad and insisted on playing yet one more time. It wasn’t until Mom came in and turned it off that David finally gave in to my superior Nintendo muscles.

  We were kicking around the garage, soaking up the coolness of the shaded concrete, when he spied the fishing poles.

  “How about some fishin’?” he asked.

  “Naw, even the fishes are hot. Anyways, remember my Mom doesn’t like me playing down there.”

  David scoffed, or at least I think he did. I was never really sure what the word meant, but I had read it enough times to understand a little. Nonetheless, I had never seen a real person snort and look surprised at the same time so I figured it must be scoffing.

  “She told you never to go swimming there,” said David with his sly look that always meant trouble. “So then don’t swim. It doesn’t mean you can’t stick your feet in the water or wade in the shallows. Ernie said he saw a crawdaddy as big as his hand down there, and I want to find it. Besides,” he said
smiling. “It’s always cooler in the woods. Maybe we won’t melt there.”

  I laughed remembering yesterday when my Dad came home from work. I was in the tree and I was sure he saw me. He pulled into the driveway and stepped out of the car. He stopped at a puddle of water that ended up by the garage door, left there from when I’d gotten a drink from the hose. I watched as he dropped his briefcase and knelt down beside it. He hollered for Mom, who came running out.

  “Jeffery. Oh My God, Ann. He melted. Our son melted.”

  My Mom smiled and so did I. It was Dad trying to be funny again. Mom would set him straight.

  “Oh My God. You’re right! He was just out here,” said my Mom. “I just checked on him.”

  She fell to her knees beside my Dad and it looked like she’d started to cry. It was going too far now. I climbed down out of the tree and walked up to the puddle and stood on the other side. I put my hands on my waist like Mom always does when I’ve done something wrong.

  “What should we do, honey?” asked my Dad. “We could get the ShopVac and suck him up. Maybe those folks at the hospital can put him back together.” He stared at the puddle and it was impossible for him not to see my reflection.

  “I don’t think they can do that,” said my Mom, her voice low and sad. “Hey. We could save him until Christmas and build a snowboy out of him. Like Frosty. He could come to life.”

  “That’s it,” said my Dad. “We’ll move to Alaska then, where our little snowboy could live forever.”

  “Dad,” I said. “Frosty ain’t real. That would never work, anyways.”

  “We’ll have to pack up his things. It’s sad all his toys will go to waste, maybe David would like his Super Nintendo,” said Mom.

  “Mom!” I yelled. The joke had really gone too far, now.