by Borne Wilder
Inside the garage, in the opposite bay, was ‘the ‘Vette’, Nolte’s pride and joy. It was parked with care and covered by a canvas tarp; a car-sized Chevrolet emblem printed stretched from end to end, announcing to any and all birds, that they would be shitting on a Chevy.
Charlie had to step over a crate of antique oil jars and assorted junk to get to the car. (Nolte’s ‘rusty gold’) He grabbed onto the edge of the tarp with both fists and snatched it off in a cloud of dust. He took a moment to watch the dust settle into the pristine interior. What a joke. The old man had really thought he had something here. Nolte had talked about the car as if it were a million dollar Bugatti, instead of a caught in the middle Corvette, too new to be worth any money and too old to be fast. Nolte’s pussy magnet was merely a hag attracter.
Nolte would hang at watering holes and drinking ditches; until he could spot a barfly with a look of desperation. If he could sway her interest from video poker to his raggedy ass, she became Nolte’s new girlfriend, at least for as long as he could keep her drunk. Once he had her well lubricated, he’d ask her to go for a spin in his rag top.
This was his standard M.O. As soon as he set his sights on a victim, he was throwing as many margaritas and beers down them as they could keep from puking up, hoping to get them drunk enough to go ‘top down’.
After the old man had poured his date into the passenger seat and buckled her in, probably more to prevent her escape, than for her safety, he would then lean over the console and whisper, “Top up or top down?” he’d then flash them a mouthful of yellow teeth and shoot them the catch, “I’m talkin’ about your shirt, darlin’.”
Surprisingly, the shithead got his way most of the time. Nolte would sport around town, both tops down, comb-over, stacked-up hair, and saggy tits, all blowing in the wind.
Nolte was an old fashioned date rapist, he used alcohol. He was of the opinion, that only criminals used Rohypnol. Charlie shook the memory of wine bottle shaped titties out of his head. Nolte wouldn’t know class if it danced up and bit his fucking dick off.
Dragging the tarp behind him, he knocked over the crate of antique oil bottles, scattering them across the floor of the garage. Charlie walked back to the bike and whipped the tarp up and over the motorcycle. “Now you see it, now you don’t.” He said to himself. He thought it best if prying eyes (law enforcement) didn’t get too familiar with his newly acquired mode of transportation, just yet.
Someone sucked snot up their nose behind him. “I felt up a stripper one time.”
Charlie turned to see the result of some drunken backseat moment of passion between siblings. The blank opened mouthed stare, said it all, Charlie had seen this same look of confusion before. This thing standing before him was the reason Junior and Alice had to ‘git married up.’ The kid looked to be around fifteen, but the vibe Charlie was getting, told him the carnal mistake was probably still struggling with tying shoe laces, “all by himself."
“She let me squeeze her titties.” The kid sucked snot again.
“Was it your mom?” The kid turned his blank open-mouthed stare inquisitive, with an attempt to sweep the snot off his upper lip with his tongue. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Junior-Junior.” The kid answered, bringing a grubby hand to his crotch, to pluck at himself.
“Imagine that.” It was obvious to Charlie, from the kid’s pixelated stare, that mommy let this one go right from the milkers to the video games. “Should you be out here by yourself, without a helmet?” Charlie asked as he brushed past him and up the steps to the back door.
“Are you Charlie?” the kid asked, sucking snot again. “My mom doesn’t like you.”
Charlie paused with his hand on the doorknob, “That’s okay kid; she told me she doesn’t like you either.”
He walked into the house without knocking; no one noticed. Either the overlapping chatter masked his arrival, or nobody could see him around Junior-Senior’s portly frame. It wasn’t long before the smell of cut onions and stale sweat, wafting off Junior, was encroaching on the same air-space that Charlie’s nose was trying to use.
“Cute kid out there, is he yours, Jethro?” Junior startled forward. “He’s a chip off the ol’ block, isn’t he?” Charlie peeked past the curtains on the door to see the kid blowing his nose on the front of his shirt. “Yep, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree with that one, did it, Junior?”
Junior stepped further into the room trying to put some distance between him and Charlie, his size thirteens kicked the chair, Alice sat in.
Whatever she had been smiling at was quickly forgotten, her facial expression changed fast enough to cause injury to her cheeks. She shared her immediate scowl between Junior and Charlie; Junior for not warning her of Charlie’s presence and Charlie for existing.
Charlie looked around the room, from face to face. Everyone in the kitchen looked back at him with the look one might have after discovering half a cockroach in the peanut butter, all but Ron, who was grinning from ear to ear.
“How was your bus ride?” Alice sneered, bum-rushing the high-ground with an air of superiority. I hope it wasn’t too bothersome.”
“Too bothersome?” Charlie repeated, chuckling. “Look at you, gittin’ yer hill talk all fancied up.” He purposely bumped the back of her chair reaching for the bottle of beer Ron held out to him. “I was presented with the opportunity of a more desirable mode of transportation.” Charlie guzzled the beer, washing some of the road out of his throat. “So this is what a hillbilly wake looks like? Y’all got a Sin-Eater a’comin’ to wash Nolte’s soul clean and shiny with Twinkies and Doritos?” Charlie glanced over at Junior and RJ, who were now side by side, Junior was attempting to form a solidarity with the larger male. “I ‘spect the onliest thing that’s missing from this here wake, is lap dances from yer sisters, Fellas, when do they start?”
RJ’s face reddened and Junior looked even more confused than usual. Charlie looked at the bottom of his beer bottle to check the status of its contents and brushed past the two idiots, making himself at home in Nolte’s refrigerator. Taking a fresh one from the ‘beer shelf’, he handed his empty to Junior.
Junior’s everyday expression of confusion deepened, as he juggled with the complications the empty bottle had presented him. Should he set it down? Should he throw it away? His mind had not yet resolved the lap dance insult and now he had this damn bottle to contend with. He knew this was not a time for him to appear indecisive. Alice had warned him about looking stupid in front of the brothers. Junior tried to hand the bottle to RJ, who waved it off. Junior was stuck with it. His mind raced.
Junior seemed to have cataloged three facial expressions during the span of his life. Confusion, Nervous Confusion and the one that he used when confronted with multiple options, Deep Confusion. The latter, the one someone might expect to see on the face of Einstein, as he worked out the details of the atomic weight of space, was used by Junior when choosing socks or verbs. His mental limitations were a constant source of irritation to Alice. Charlie figured the poor son of a bitch was one life insurance policy away, from a nap in the freezer.
“Why is everyone hanging out in the kitchen?” Charlie asked. He scanned the faces in the room again for an answer, skipping over Junior whose attention was still lost on the empty beer bottle. The rest looked as if they were still wondering where the other half of the cockroach was. “It’s a bit crowded in here, don’t you think?”
“Nolte went tits up in the other room,” Ron offered with a smile, “The hill folk have been rootin’ around in every room of this house, lookin’ fer goodies, but won’t spend more than a few seconds at a time in there.” He said tossing a nod toward the living room and a wink at Charlie. “I think they’re scared of ghosties.”
“Nah, there’s no such thing.” Charlie paused to guzzle his beer again. “Is there Alice?” he asked, handing his empty bottle to RJ, who in turn, handed it to Junior. Junior’s face had a strained look of confusion. Charlie wond
ered if Junior might have developed a fourth expression, the ‘Why won’t my ejection seat work?’ look of confusion.
“I’m hungry.” Alice stated flatly, “Would you get the grill going, Junior?” She turned to Junior, dropping her gaze down onto the two beer bottles in his hands. She shook her head and frowned. Junior looked around nervously for a place to put them, knowing any place he chose would turn out to be the wrong place. Alice knew she had to get Junior out of the line of fire; he was a slow moving target. Stupidity had a way of snowballing with him. “Get Junior-Junior to help you.”
Ron choked on his bourbon, or whatever Nolte’s version of bourbon was. “Are you shitting me, you named your kid, Junior-Junior?” He looked at Charlie across the room. Charlie had turned his head, hoping to stave off laughter. “Did y’all run plum outta baby names, up yonder on Walton’s Mountain?”
Alice flashed Ron and evil glare, “It’s a nickname, Dipshit.” She stood, looking as if she would like to tear Ron a new asshole, before turning her anger loose on poor, full handed Junior. “Can you put your beer down long enough to burn a few hotdogs for your son?” She snapped before planting a Scottish archer in his ribs.
Junior thought about handing her his empty bottles but quickly reconsidered, since she only had one free hand. He had a bad feeling he was going to be the dipshit now. She would be in need of a punching bag later and his ass was wearing Everlast underwear. Grilling hotdogs was a good idea. It would get him out of her sight, and allow him an opportunity to sort through the empty beer bottle thing. Junior removed himself from the others, tail between his legs. He felt he could have handled the situation much better if he’d had time to think. Sometimes things just happened too fast for him.
Charlie stared at RJ with a crooked smile, “Hey Ron, you want to see my new scoot?” he said, not breaking his stare with the big hillbilly. “Your wife looks like she could use a drink, Jethro.” He smiled, uninviting RJ.
RJ had heard the ‘Charlie Stories’, but they didn’t scare him. One of these days, he would grab that sonofabitch in a bear hug and squeeze him out, and then he would laugh at Chucky for pissing his pants. He remembered getting choked out in gym class, in high school and he’d pissed his pants.
Junior and Junior-Junior had gathered around the grill they had set up in the driveway. The slope of the drive caused one end of the grill to be two inches higher than the other. Junior, who had been blessed all the way to the plum full mark with hillbilly ingenuity, had a spatula stuck between the grill wires, keeping the hotdogs from rolling off and onto the ground. The franks had gathered against the spatula dam, but Junior-Junior was standing by at the ready on the low side, just in case the old man lost control and the spatula dam burst. Both appeared to be in a state of deep concentration, with a matching set of deep confusion expressions.
Charlie and Ron had paused to watch the operation. “Why don’t they just turn the grill?” Ron asked.
Ron scratched his head in wonderment as Charlie elbowed past. “Twenty bucks, says one of them gets burned.” Charlie wagered. Ron could watch stupid people; do stupid shit, far longer than he could. To Ron it was entertainment. To Charlie, it was fucking tragic, stupid fucks pissed him off. A whistle caught Ron’s attention; Charlie was taking the tarp of the bike.
“What’s up with the cover, you’re afraid a bird’s gonna shit on it?”
“Nah.” Charlie chuckled. “Proof of ownership problems.” He winked at Ron and changed the subject. “What did the old lady in Louisiana have to say, do we still have a deal?”
“We have today and tomorrow to get it to her.” Ron rubbed his forehead; he was still having a hard time getting his mind around voodoo, magic and ghosts. “Right now, Nolte can’t touch the thing. I have no idea why. Who fucking knew voodoo was so regulated.” Ron gave Charlie a grave look. “If he gets his paws on this fucking thing before we do, not only are we out the cash, but we are stuck with his crazy ass until the day we die, not only us but our children and our children’s children and so on and so forth. I’d rather castrate myself with a spork than allow him to play Grandpa Touchy with my offspring.”
“How in the hell are we going to find something that small in that cluttered shithole? Charlie asked. We’re running out of time.”
“What the fuck are you two bootie bandits looking for?"
Both men turned to find Nolte huffing on his giant sunglasses and polishing them with a small tuft of stuffing he’d plucked from the side of his diaper. “Wouldn’t be my nest egg you’re after, would it?” Nolte looked at his reflection in his shades and smoothed his hand over his thin comb-over. “Not a bad head of hair, considering the chemo.” He put the sunglasses on and grinned. “You flit boys couldn’t find your dicks, with both hands and three tries.”
It was Ron’s turn to grin. “Come over here, Charlie.” He jerked his head toward his car and walked around to the trunk.
Nolte followed the two, closely. He stepped on the back of Charlie’s shoe, peeling it off his heel. “Flat tire motherfucker!” Nolte shouted. Charlie spun on Nolte, reaching for his throat, but the old man blinked out of existence and popped back in, on the other side of Ron, cackling like a fool. Charlie muttered about cocksuckers, as he bent down to thumb the back of his shoe up over his heel.
“Go ahead and laugh, shithead, you just made my short list.” Nolte peeked over his bug-eyed shades and grinned his big yellow grin.
Ron accidently on purpose threw an elbow into Nolte’s gut and popped the trunk of his car. Beneath a carefully folded blanket lay a metal detector.
“How do you like it, Nolte?” It was his turn to grin again.
Nolte leaned closer to get a look. “You dumb fucks. You do realize that houses are put together with nails, and nails are made of metal, right?” He dismissed the detector with a wave of the back of his hand. “You two retards are going to be chasing beeps until the cows come home.”
“Welcome to the age of technology, Mr. Flintstone. This new-fangly watch-finder tells you when you’ve struck gold, platinum, aluminum, copper... No digging required. I can make steel and iron disappear with a tap on the screen.” It was still his turn to grin. “A tap of the screen here and this little beauty will focus on silver coins and nest eggs.”
Nolte suddenly looked sick.
Ron nudged Charlie in his side. “Let’s go find some treasure, Matey.”
As they turned and walked toward the house, Charlie began whistling Bluetail Fly. Ron stopped suddenly. “What the fuck brought that tune on?”
“I don’t know; the song’s been stuck in my head all day.”
“Those hickerbilly cunts won’t let you keep my nest egg!” Nolte cried out behind them. “You can fuck off!”
“They won’t know shit about your nest egg.” Ron tossed out over his shoulder, as they continued toward the house.
“I can talk to Alice, dumb fucks. She can see me and I’ll spill the beans all over her ass.” Now it was Nolte’s turn to grin. Nolte’s grin was wide and toothy beneath his bug-eyed lady shades. He looked outrageous with his hands on his hips and beer gut pooched out. A mutant albino cricket in a Huggie, thought Ron.
“I’ll melt your fucking coin as soon as I get my hands on it.” Ron threatened.
Nolte suddenly looked sick again. A sick, mutant albino cricket in a Huggie.
A high pitched, “Ouchy,” rang out from the two Juniors. Junior-Junior was bent at the waist, with his hands clamped between his knees. “Hot, hot, hot!” he chanted. There was half a dozen, half cooked hotdogs, scattered at his feet, the two that remained on the grill appeared to be cooked to perfection. “Hot, hot, hot!” Junior-Junior rocked from foot to foot, stomping the ground.
Suddenly, a guttural, primal scream erupted from the kid. He spun into the grass and snatched the bowl off of Nolte’s birdbath. Still spinning, he flung it out into the yard a good fifteen feet.
“Holy shit, that thing must weigh fifty pounds,” Charlie exclaimed.
“Retard str
ength. I saw it on a documentary.” Ron concluded. “Of Mice and Men Syndrome. Mark my words; someday that kid is going to kill someone’s prom date.”
Junior-Junior looked sheepishly at the brothers, he held out his hand as justification of his unraveling. “I got burned.”
Junior-Senior looked at his son with confused compassion. “Did it hurt?”
Charlie shot Ron a grin and threw an elbow into his ribs. “You owe me twenty, Bitch.”
***
Nolte had flashed ahead of them; he was standing beside RJ by the time they entered the kitchen. The old man seemed especially creepy under fluorescent lighting. The frail, cancer ravaged body contrasted greatly with Nolte’s beaming expression. It was obvious that the hulking mass of hillbilly could not see the haggard Lollipop Kid next to him, Nolte had to leap out of the way when RJ reached for his beer. Nolte’s smile widened at Charlie, it was clear that he was having fun. Even when the old man was doing something he liked, Charlie couldn’t remember Nolte ever having fun. Charlie smiled back; he wanted to stick Nolte’s fun up Nolte’s diapered ass.
Martha seemed just as oblivious to Nolte. She was busy looking for the answers to life’s questions in the bottom of the mixed drink, which now sat before her. It was clear she was struggling with faith issues and a desire to upend the glass and splash her tonsils with the satanic liquid. RJ’s focus was also on Martha’s glass, though, he was willing her to drink. He couldn’t believe his luck when she had fallen for his ruse, that it would calm her while the brothers were around. However, he had an ulterior motive; it was easier to talk Martha into some dick when she was drunk.
Before the Lord had seen fit to enter into his Martha, he used to put the dick to her every time she turned around. Although she had never been very enthusiastic about it, and she never actually initiated the deed, RJ had always found her to be a willing participant. That all changed once she found God, then it was birthdays and Father’s Day only. RJ didn’t know much about the Good Book, but he was pretty sure it didn’t outlaw fucking.
