After JB had finished most of the bottle, Colin and Terry asked him to walk a straight line, recite tongue twisters and anything else they could think of to challenge his sobriety. Afterwards, JB had the satisfaction of watching the look on both their faces. Their skepticism had turned to astonishment.
“See, it’s like I told y’all. I can’t get drunk… or stoned. Or nothin’!” JB said happily, finally hoping to make his point.
“Jesus! That don’t sound like much fun,” Colin said.
“Ya get used to it,” JB replied. “Anyways, that’s how it is!”
He had thought this would prove that he was telling the truth about everything, but that wasn’t what he was getting from them. In fact, Terry looked more confused than ever.
“Cuz, you know that all of this is the craziest crap I ever did hear. Now, I don’t know how you pulled off that drinking trick, but underneath all that plastic surgery, you’re kin, so whatever you want t’ believe is fine with me… But jus’ don’t bring this alien shit up with anybody else, especially the guys at the pig-pull. They’re mostly high-strung about stuff like that.”
“Now, Terry, I respectfully disagree,” Colin said in a statesmanlike tone that seemed ridiculous coming from a disheveled man in boxer shorts. “The Righteous Sons of Real Freedom are an open-minded group. Dedicated to casting off the yoke of big government, doing away with unconstitutional regulations and taxes and restoring personal freedoms!”
Terry put his hand on top of his partner’s and gently admonished him. “Hey, It’s just us, Colin. You don’t have to practice your stump speech at the kitchen table.”
“Hell,” Colin protested mildly, “It ain’t a speech, it’s a way of life. One day we’re all gonna wake up with troopers at our doorstep! An’ that’s why the annual pig-pull is gonna fund this year’s ammunition drive! So when that day surely comes, we’ll be ready! They will learn that we are a force to be reckoned with!”
“Alright… We get it!” Terry conceded, clearly dismissive and unwilling to argue the point further. “But that’s not what I was talking about.” He turned to JB. “In any case, I still think it might be a good idea to keep the alien thing to yourself.”
“I ain’t gonna be stayin’ for the pig-pull, too dangerous,” JB said.
“Hell! I wasn’t thinkin’ it was gonna be that bad!” Terry exclaimed.
“No, I don’t mean that. I’m sayin’ it’s dangerous for them who’s around me. The alien’s that all’s huntin’ me don’t give much thought to anybody else who gets in the way.” He gave his cousin a level look and said, “I just needed to tell y’all what was happenin’. Like y’all told me. Time to move on.”
Terry wasn’t having any of it. “Hell if you are! You can’t just fall by and drop a load of shit like this on me! ‘Sides, even if what you say is true, an’ I ain’t sayin’ it is… An’ I ain’t saying it ain’t, you got nothing to worry about here. Every last one of the Righteous Sons will be arriving at the pig-pull in open-carry. Hell, most of ‘em will be armed to the teeth!”
JB started to argue, but their conversation was interrupted by the military melody, “Assembly”, rendered loudly by a car horn from outside. Terry left the kitchen and rushed over to a window in the front room. He parted the drapes and looked out at the line of trucks pulling up to the house.
“Hot Damn!” Terry yelled to Colin, who was still sitting in the kitchen with JB. “Looks like the barbecue trucks have arrived. Ol’ Duane is with ‘em, an’ from the looks of the barbecues they’re towin’ we are gonna be extremely well fed! I better go get dressed so I can tell ‘em where we want everything set up.”
“Hey Colin, before I get back on the road, is there anything y’all need me to lend a hand with?” JB felt his offer was the least he could do in return for disrupting their morning.
“That would be great, JB,” Colin said. “While Terry throws on some clothes, why don’t you get out there and tell Duane… He’s the big black dude, to pull the trucks out into the back. That would speed things up considerably.”
JB got up to go, thinking that absolutely nothing had gone as he expected. The only good thing, he thought, was that he never got around to mentioning or demonstrating his ability to modify his body. He couldn’t begin to imagine his cousin’s reaction to that.
JB spent the rest of the morning helping the catering crew set up for the big event. There were twelve barbecues, all large enough to accommodate two whole pigs on their rotisserie spits that had to be rolled into place and the innumerable tables, benches, and chairs. By the time the pig-pull barbecue was scheduled to begin, an enormous amount of food needed to readied. Even before the grills had been hitched up to the trucks and towed to the estate, they were already fired up and cooking en route. At the official three o’clock start time there would be platters of barbecue ready to serve, although the grilling would continue non-stop until every last bit of meat was cooked and taken down off the spit.
The annual pig-pull was a big deal for the membership of the Righteous Sons of Real Freedom. The event was well regarded enough for most of them to pay the three hundred dollar “donation” to attend and to eat and drink as much as they could hold. Aside from the ribs and pulled pork, some of the members brought their own game to cook as well. This year a few of the catering staff JB had spoken to mentioned that they were expecting lots of alligator and bear, neither of which were in season.
While the membership looked forward to this event because of the exotic eats and the unlimited beer, they were also mindful that they were supporting a cause they knew and loved… And since North Carolina was an open-carry state, they would also be showing off the most impressive pieces from their respective firearms collections. It was a day to brag about their fire-power, celebrate their cause and commiserate over the state of the union.
Colin Trench had organized the militia group years ago, not long after he and Terry met. That was another twist, for Terry dropped out of his senior year in high school after he was ‘outed’ by some of his teammates on the football squad and effectively shamed out of town. Sometime after that, Terry and Colin had found each other at a demonstration protesting restrictions on concealed carry in Dallas. The two had bonded over their mutual love of weapons and distrust of authority. One thing led to another and what started as a friendship had blossomed into something more.
The two had transformed their political views into a loosely run organization, funded by what was left of Colin Trench’s trust fund. Over the years, the Righteous Sons of Real Freedom had gained momentum and a substantial membership. Trench personally had no illusions about the absurdities and contradictions in the RSORF manifesto. He loved the rush of leading a group of like-minded men and women who were passionate about their personal freedom. However, there was another factor, of course. The money.
The dollars had begun to roll in as the ranks of the RSORF began to swell. Colin, with his masterfully fine-tuned recruiting pitch, had found a tremendously receptive audience in the Carolinas. At present, the group was nearly three hundred strong and more impressively, a majority of the membership came out dutifully to the many fundraising events where ideology took a back seat to marathon partying.
After helping with the barbecues, JB intended to leave, but Terry asked him to stay and help unload the tables and chairs from the rental company truck. Shortly after that, he got sidetracked assisting with setting up some lightweight canopies for shade and the portable lighting units. There was no doubt that the party would continue long after sunset. After he finished with those, he found himself getting hungry, so he decided to stay until the food was set out.
JB surmised from the number of tables and chairs that this promised to be a huge event. He couldn’t remember if the previous RSORF events he attended were nearly so well appointed, but Duane, the guy in charge of the planning, had mentioned that this year’s party was going to be the biggest one they had ever held.
As JB surveyed the preparations, he, of
course, had been unaware that several generations back, the entire rear of the estate had been checker-boarded with opulently landscaped gardens. Now, the roses and flowerbeds were long gone, and there was nothing but an acre of flat ground that was bare in some places and overgrown in others. However, on this day, in the space of several hours, the area had become transformed from a dreary, barren field into a festive fairground. Flags with the Righteous Sons of Real Freedom logo, a lion holding a limp snake in its jaws against the background of a Union Jack, fluttered in the late morning breeze that smelled of barbecued pork and the nearby ocean.
While he was waiting for the food to come out, JB busied himself assisting some recently arrived volunteers to hang banners while others were setting up kiosks and rigging a makeshift stage. JB found for the first time in a very long while that while participating in the mundane chores, he was able to take his mind off his troubles. And, he was becoming more comfortable with his decision to stay on for the pig-pull. After all, he thought, it was reasonable to assume that he would be safe from attack… He figured he’d be lost in a crowd of drinkers and dopers who were also very heavily armed. Yes, he thought. He’d be safe here, at least for a while.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Party Time
COLIN TRENCH WAS standing on a homemade, plywood stage in the center of the gathering throng. He was fiddling with the microphone trying to get the jury-rigged public address system to work. Finally, with a burst of feedback, he was able to begin his announcement.
“Fellow Righteous Sons, I ask you to take a moment and bow your heads,” he said in a serious voice and then waited for a beat or so before he began again. “Heavenly Father, I ask your blessing on these men and their mission… And on the food, we are about to partake. We thank you, Lord, for your generous and bountiful gifts, and the strength to fight for what we believe in! Amen.”
He waited for another beat, and then in a far less pious tone he bellowed, “Let the party begin!”
The crowd cheered loudly in reply, and the RSORF annual pig-pull began in earnest as attendees flooded the tables and the barbecues like ants at a picnic. The crowd was huge and colorful. And, as expected, most of the party-goers were either wearing handguns at their waist or carrying automatic rifles slung over their shoulders. As he marveled at the size of the crowd, JB felt like he was the only one who had shown up without a firearm.
Earlier, Terry had told JB that they had sold over two hundred tickets in advance, and there were many walkins that had also shown up. As a result, parking had become a considerable challenge. Trucks, cars, and bikes festooned with NRA stickers, MIA flags, and other political sentiments were haphazardly parked in every possible location all around the property.
Cousin Terry had anticipated the crush, and JB was glad he had taken his advice and parked Ol’ Blue up the road before the party got started. Terry had told him, “Same shit happens every year. They’ve been drinkin’ and smokin’ an’ fuckall, and afterwards, for some reason, everybody gets it into their heads to leave at the same time… Destruction Derby is what I call it. It’s entertainin’ as hell…As long as you ain’t a part of it!”
Minutes after Colin’s announcement, the pig-pull was in full swing. Enormous quantities of beer and meat were being consumed at a furious pace. The men and women working the grills were keeping up as best they could. The small army of servers replenished the serving platters as soon as the newly cooked meat came off the grill. Thanks to their efforts, the long lines at each of the barbecue stations moved quickly. Folks enthusiastically swooped by the tables helping themselves; choosing from among stacks of ribs, mounds of pulled pork, skewers of barbecued alligator, and chunks of grilled bear. It was an all-you-could-eat and drink affair, so as crowded as the food tables were, the beer dispensing stations were totally overwhelmed, and barely keeping up with the demand.
JB was sitting at one of the shaded tables near the stage with Terry and Colin, chewing on a rib that he was enjoying wholeheartedly. The conversation at the table was loud but good-natured. There were no disagreements, whether the discussion turned to government excess, taxation without representation or if ‘Duck Dynasty’ was going to come back next season; it was all good.
Colin and Terry were having a great time holding court. Friends and supporters had been coming up all afternoon to share a few words or simply to shake their hands. One guy, obviously in his cups, made his way over to where Colin was sitting.
“A donation for the nation!” the man slurred loudly, handing Colin a hundred dollar bill.
As the bill crossed Colin’s palm, a wonderful idea sprung into his brain. He stood up abruptly, grabbed JB’s hand and said, “Come on with me.”
Without waiting for JB to respond, or offering any further explanation, he walked over onto the makeshift stage, dragging JB along while waving the hundred dollar bill over his head. He flipped the switch on the microphone and it came to life with a squeal. “Everybody! Let me have your attention! We got a hundred dollar donation from Jordy, there… Thanks, Jordy! But the cause needs more help. I hate to say, but this could be our last pig-pull if we can’t raise a few more bucks!”
“Now, the Righteous Sons don’t do no auctions or any other of that elite shit, but I got an idea that you might like. How ‘bout betting on a little beer drinkin’?”
The crowd agreed with various yells of approval, and JB glared at Colin who replied with a wink before he continued with his announcement.
“This here’s JB, Terry’s cousin, who’s volunteered himself to go head to head with anybody who thinks they might be able to out drink him.” He motioned to JB, and there was some snickering and laughter as JB squirmed uneasily. “All for the cause, right, JB? So, if anybody here thinks he can out drink JB, here… Well, come on down.”
In response, twelve came forward, but most of them were already drunk and were good-naturedly rejected by the crowd. In the end, it boiled down to four men and one woman who wanted to take up the challenge. Two of the four were pot-bellied and sun-burnt. The third was barrel-chested and short, but all three looked ten years older than they probably were, and were covered with numerous faded tattoos. The fourth man was much younger than the others. He was pale-skinned, bald and remarkably skinny, especially compared to the lone female contestant, who was nearly as wide as she was tall.
There were cheers, hollers and obscenities shouted as the five of them congregated in a line at the edge of the stage. Colin repeatedly asked the crowd to quiet down, and he waited for the din to subside enough for him to be heard. He said, “Here’s how much faith I got in Cousin JB, here… I will personally guarantee ten to one… Yes, you heard me, ten to one… That JB will be the last person standing!”
He motioned for Terry to join him and JB on the stage and announced, “Terry here’ll take your bets, and you have my word that I will back up all wagers. Personally… But if I win the bet, and JB’s the last one on his feet, I’ll donate half of the winnings to the Righteous Sons of Real Freedom, right here ‘longside Jordy’s one hundred dollars… Thanks again, Jordy! Now, who’s up for a little wager in support of the cause?”
Before JB could say a word, Colin had turned off the microphone and turned to whisper in his ear. “Don’t be stupid, kid. I’ll give you part of what I keep.”
JB didn’t like it, but he had learned to be practical. He was always short of cash, and in the past, he had employed a similar scam himself. So despite his reluctance, he took his place standing in line with the other five contestants while they waited for the table to be set up for them. Several guys brought over chairs, while someone else used a dolly to roll over a keg of beer in a tub of ice. As the five sat down at the table, large plastic cups were placed in front of each of them.
Meanwhile, Terry was so completely overwhelmed by people wanting to place bets that he enlisted Duane’s help to write them all down while he collected the cash. The bets continued to pour in as each contestant’s glass was filled from the keg.
The microphone squealed again as Colin switched it back on and earnestly announced, “Okay, folks. After the third pour, no more bets will be accepted. Jess, over here, is gonna keep track of how much every contestant drinks. Last man…”
“What the fuck am I? Chopped liver?” complained the sole female contestant with a petulant toss of her blue and pink colored hair.
“Okay, Erica, sorry. I’ll say again, the last man… Or woman who remains standing is the winner. So, place those bets while you can and… Let’s git ‘er done!”
He was rewarded with enthusiastic whistles and loud applause as the contest began. All eyes were on the five at the table as they each brought the first beer up to their lips and guzzled it down. The entire crowd was engaged, there were exuberant catcalls and yells of encouragement as the next pour was dispensed. Jess, the man keeping count, had organized it so each pour was set out at the same time, letting the contestants set their own collective pace in emptying their glasses.
As the competitors were working on pour number four, Terry came over to Colin, who had just left the stage and spoke to him in an excited whisper. “Six thousand bucks! At ten to one! How we gonna pay if you lose?”
“Relax, Terry. Didn’t you hear him? He’s got shit inside him that won’t let him get drunk.”
“You believe that alien crap?” Terry hissed, shaking his head vehemently.
“I believe what I saw this morning. An’ that’s all I need to know.”
Terry shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay. But I sure hope you’re right, or we’re gonna have a riot on our hands!”
After pour number ten, the competition began to thin, as the woman, Erica, dropped out… Or more to the point, fell down. By this time, many of the crowd without money on the line were beginning to lose interest and drift away. The remaining crowd was shouting itself hoarse by pour number twelve, when one of the pot-bellied men got the heaves. Fortunately, someone with foresight had thoughtfully provided a bucket for each contestant. After he finished vomiting into his, he tried to get back into the game at the urging of the crowd, but he couldn’t keep pour thirteen down either and staggered off to one of the portable toilets. The barrel-chested man was the next to go down, falling face forward onto the table.
Alien Roadkill-Homecoming Page 6
