South of the Pumphouse

by Les Claypool

  Earl and Don looked at each other again, smiling and shaking their heads.

  “Hey, Ed, you really think I’m such a dipshit?” asked Donny, as Ed reached in the cooler for another beer.

  “Yes, Donny. Yes, I do.”

  “Because you think I’m a racist?”

  “C’mon, you two,” Earl pleaded, “can’t we just catch a damn fish!?”

  “That’s what we been tryin’ to do, Earl, but we got the wrong bait and we’re in the wrong spot!”

  “No, we’re in the right spot,” insisted Ed as he sat back in his chair. “This is where the big one is.” He slurped his beer and then added, “The biggest.”

  Earl beamed at Ed and patted him on the back.

  “Right on, bro.”

  Donny stood up to reel in his line, commenting sarcastically, “Whew-doggie! Look at you guys. That’s sweet as hell; a little brotherly bonding goin’ on here.

  Man, I need me a tissue. I think I feel a tear or two gettin’ ready to spring.”

  Earl grabbed Ed from the back of the neck and patted him hard on the chest. “That’s right, don’t fuck around. This is my baby bro here.”

  “I got your back, bro,” responded Ed, chuckling with his brother.

  “Damn, that truly is sweet. To see you boys a-huggin’ and a-fondlin’ on each other like that. I’ll turn my back if you guys wanna French kiss or somethin’.” Donny turned to check his bait.

  Ed and Earl continued laughing, clearly enjoying the moment. Seeing that his hooks were bare, Donny reached into the bait bucket and scooped out a handful of grass shrimp, dropping them onto the engine cover. He grabbed one as they flipped about.

  Ed watched while Don threaded a shrimp on his hook, hearing a slight squeal. He looked at the other shrimp on the engine cover, focusing on a particularly large specimen.

  Hey, Ed, said the large shrimp. The voice was deeper than the others, with a hint of gravel in its tone.

  Hey, responded Ed.

  Looks like it’s about my time.

  Donny reached in and grabbed another shrimp, right next to the one with whom Ed was conversing.

  You worried?

  Naw, I’ve had a good life. We all gotta go some time.

  Yeah, I suppose so, reflected Ed. Both Ed and the large shrimp heard the squeal of the one that Donny was currently skewering. Kind of a fucked up way to go, though, observed Ed.

  After a slow, deep laugh, the large shrimp pontificated: Not many other ways for a guy like me. You know how that whole food chain thing is: your whole life always looking out over your shoulder for something to come and gobble you down.

  Bummer, mused Ed.

  Don reached down and grabbed another shrimp.

  Yeah, you know, it’s actually better this way. When we were all out in the big water, we’d be hanging out, a bunch of us schooled up. Then someone’d holler, and we’d scramble one way. Then a bit later, someone else’d holler, and we’d all scramble another way. Shit, it was nerve-wracking as hell.

  I’ll bet, Ed chuckled.

  You got it made, boy. Worse thing can happen to you is you might get hit by a train or catch on fire or something. You might even get lucky and die in your bed when you’re old. Guys like me don’t get very old. Hell, look around. You see many fellas bigger than me here? Not likely.

  You know, I could flip you overboard. Set you free, if you like.

  Well, that’s damn kind of you. Probably the kindest thing I’ve ever come across, and I thank you for that. I truly do. The shrimp paused and then continued, Naw, I’m tired. No more looking over the shoulder. It’s my time. I’m good with that.

  Donny’s fingers wrapped around the large shrimp’s body.

  Here I go, announced the shrimp as he was lifted off the engine cover. Take care now, Ed.

  Good luck, said Ed.

  He looked off at the horizon. The colors of the sky were amazing. He watched the water reflect the vivid imagery of the sky above. Then he heard a faint squeal, a bit deeper in tone than the previous ones.

  Chapter 24

  THE O.J. THEORY

  Don hauled back his pole, then lurched it forward, casting out his line. After setting down the rod, he reached in the cooler for another beer. He sat back, tapped the top of his bottle, cracked it open, and took a big slurp. “Ahhh. Now that’s a damn fine Silver Bullet.” He turned to Ed. “So, Ed, you think I’m a racist dipshit, huh?”

  “Oh, jeez. I thought we were done with this shit,” Earl moaned.

  “Pipe down now, Earl. I’m talkin’ to Ed here.”

  “Yes, I can honestly say that I think you are definitely a racist dipshit,” replied Ed.

  “Well, there ya go,” said Donny, slurping his beer again. “Ya know, Ed, I’m not as much of a racist dipshit as you probably think. And I’ll give you a for instance.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. What did ya think of that whole O.J. Simpson shit?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Donny posed the question: “Guilty or not guilty?”

  “Shit,” muttered Ed.

  “C’mon now, Ed. Guilty or not guilty?”

  “Well, in the court of law, he was found not guilty.”

  “No shit, Charlie Chan! I ain’t askin’ what the court said. I wanna know what you think.”

  Ed reflected a moment. “It was obvious that the police screwed everything up and planted a bunch of evidence to reinforce their case.”

  “Gaw’damnit, Ed, I’m askin’ what YOU think happened. Not what happened after or in the court or any of that shit. I wanna know, in your heart or brain or stomach or whatever, did he kill that bitch or not?”

  “Yes, I think he killed both those people.”

  “Well, there ya go,” proclaimed Donny triumphantly.

  “What do you mean, there you go?”

  “I mean, you sit here and call me a racist dipshit, and you’re just as bad if not worse.”

  Ed laughed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Did you watch that shit on TV?”

  “Some of it.”

  “And it looked like they had him, didn’t it? I mean, they had all that DNA shit and the cut on his finger and the glove and the shoes. Man, that boy was wrapped up tight. What’d you think, Earl?”

  “I thought they had him.”

  “Yep, then that Johnny Cock-ring guy starts talkin’ about Hitler and shit. Blew the whole thing to hell. Goin’ on about the ‘N’ word. What a bunch of crap!” Donny took another slurp of his beer and continued, “You can’t say nigger in public unless you are a nigger. Then you can sing all about it, put it on yer T-shirt. Hell, they call each other nigger as a compliment half the time. Go figure that shit out.”

  “Is there some sort of point to any of this?” asked Ed.

  “Yeah, the point is this: I wasn’t fooled by that shit one minute.”

  “What shit?”

  “All of it!” snapped Donny. “It was too neat. Here you have some guy, big football hero. He’s used to getting whatever he wants: money, cars, pussy, you name it. Then his hot, trophy-blond wife decides to say fuck you. You know this guy’s ego can’t take it. ‘You’re gonna fuck with me? I’m O.J., bitch! Nobody fucks with O.J.!’ So he slaps her around a bit, and she cools out for a little while. Then he comes along one day and she’s screwin’ the next-door neighbor, some white guy with a peter half the size of his, and a busboy to boot! Now this really sets him off. He goes home, gets his shit, and slices them both up with a hunting knife.”

  Looking baffled, Ed asked, “So what you’re saying is, you think he did it. Correct?”

  “No,” replied Donny.

  “What do you mean, no?!”

  “It’s too fuckin’ obvious. He was set up.”

  “By the police.”

  “No, but they must have had a hand in it.”

  “Well, now I’m lost completely. You’re saying you don’t believe he did it because it’s too obvious, and somehow, because I th
ink he did do it, it makes me a racist dipshit like you?”

  “Well, I don’t know about all that, but what I’m saying is that since you think I’m such a racist, which by the way I’m not completely denying,” Donny grinned, “it would only make sense that I think O.J. is guilty. But what’s funny is that I don’t think he’s guilty, and you do. Kinda puts us on unlikely sides of the fence, don’t it, Ed?”

  “There is some fragment of pretzel logic in that mess, I suppose. But I just don’t see you looking that far past the nose on your face,” said Ed, pausing for a moment before asking, “Why do you think he was set up?”

  “Like I said, it’s so obvious. Too obvious for me.”

  “Well, who would want to kill his wife?”

  Donny looked Ed squarely in the eye and then announced: “Michael Jackson.”

  Both Ed and Earl peered at Donny to see if he was joking. Finally, Ed repeated his words, incredulously, “Michael Jackson?”

  “Yep.”

  “You’re serious? Michael Jackson?”

  “Yep.” Donny was undaunted.

  Ed and Earl stared at each other in disbelief. Ed exploded into laughter.

  “I’m not bullshittin’.”

  “You think Michael Jackson wanted to kill Nicole Brown Simpson?” asked Ed, bracing himself for what was to follow.

  “Think about it for a second. Just before all that O.J. shit came down, what were the cops and D.A.s down there doin’? They were gettin’ ready to pile up a big-ass case against that freaky Michael Jackson fucker for all those young boys he was screwin’ around with. You know, of anybody, that fucker can really pull some strings. The way I see it, he put this whole thing together to draw attention away from the shit he was doin’.”

  Ed gazed at Donny for a moment and then burst into laughter once again. “Man, you’re fucking gone.”

  “Yeah?” Donny replied. “Maybe, but it sure is funny how all of his problems disappeared as soon as O.J. hit the fan.” He took a big gulp of his beer. “Think about it, Ed. Michael Jackson gets caught suckin’ on some little kid’s pecker. He knows he’s fucked. He calls in some smart fuckers to figure a way out. Probably that Johnny Cock-ring son of a bitch set it all up! Anyway, everyone knows this O.J. bastard is beating his white wife. So they kill her, pay off a couple of cops, and send everybody lookin’ in a different direction. Hell, you know he’s got the cash to set shit like that up, no problem. Anyways, you got white people pissed at black people and vice versa. The whole country is in a mess over the shit. In the meantime, the cops and prosecutors are spendin’ all their money huntin’ and houndin’ poor ol’ O.J. They ain’t got none left to go after some rich child-molester, and Michael Jackson skates on out of the whole mess.” Donny leaned back and slurped his beer triumphantly.

  Ed and Earl appeared dumbfounded by the whole thing. Earl finally stood up to check his bait. “Hunh,” he grunted.

  Ed shook his head and muttered, “That shit is out. ” He leaned back in his seat and repeated more emphatically, “WAY out.” He then thought for a moment. He had always been a sucker for conspiracy theories. “You know, Donny, I think Michael Jackson lives in a different county.”

  “Whatta ya mean?”

  “It would be a different D.A. Police department too.”

  Donny considered this for a moment. “Eh, them fuckers are all hooked together in some way.”

  Earl finished reeling in his line. He examined his hooks, still covered with shrimp. “Damn, they haven’t even touched it,” he grumbled, then cast his line back out. “Wanna know what I think?” Both Ed and Donny stared out the back of the boat. “I think ol’ O.J. just lost it. He got all tweaked up on speed and lost it. They were all doin’ speed down there, right?”

  Donny looked at him and shrugged.

  Earl continued, “You remember that whole Jeff Mckrane shit?”

  “Hell yeah. That was some nasty shit. They tried to get me tied up in that,” Donny answered.

  “What are you talking about?” asked Ed.

  “Oh, a couple years ago, they found this guy down in San Pablo. He had been stabbed twelve times, and the knife was left stuck in his eye.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Turned out Jeff Mckrane,” Earl explained, “this guy who used to work down at Lou’s Tires, got all tweaked out and killed the guy over some 49ers tickets or some shit like that.”

  “No, it wasn’t Niner tickets,” Donny corrected. “Jeff had an old game ball from the ’60s that Kenny Stabler had autographed, and that guy Eric stole it and off’d it for a hundred bucks. Turned out the stupid fucker sold it to Jeff’s cousin.” Donny laughed for a moment, shaking his head. “Hell, remember that kid who got shot in that trailer park down by the ol’ Broiler House? Poor son of a bitch never knew what hit him.”

  “Yeah, that was fucked up,” Earl remembered.

  “What happened?” asked Ed.

  “Another fuckin’ tweaker. It was that Kenny Tucker prick. I never did like that dickhead, cocky bastard,” Donny said.

  “Sounds like someone we know,” chuckled Earl.

  “Eh, cute, Earl,” Donny replied. “Anyhow, he used to cook up that nasty shit in his bathtub. Fuckin’ yellow bathtub crank. He’d sell that shit cheap to all his friends. Come to think of it, he wasn’t too bad. Anyways, there’s Tucker sittin’ in his trailer; probably been up for a week. Then this kid comes along collectin’ for the newspaper, and Tucker of course thinks it’s the cops or the boogieman or some shit. So he blasts the poor bastard right through the gaw’damned door with a twelve gauge. Thirteen-year-old kid, dead.”

  “Jesus,” muttered Ed.

  “My aunt lived right next door, two stalls over,” added Donny.

  The three men sat pensive for a moment, looking out at the water. Earl then continued with his story. “Well anyhow, as soon as they started talkin’ about O.J. and that Kato guy gettin’ some crank, I knew that he had to have done it.”

  “O.J. did crank?” asked Ed.

  “Yeah, I remember at some point they were talkin’ about it on the news or some shit. Him and Kato were doin’ crank or coke or somethin’. They were always goin’ on about how Nicole and that other friend of hers were doin’ speed, and you know how that shit is.” Earl looked to Donny. “If one person’s doin’ that shit, chances are, everyone is.”

  “You should know, Earl,” laughed Donny.

  “I don’t remember them ever proving that O.J. did speed,” said Ed.

  “Ed, there ain’t no such thing as just one tweaker,”

  Earl explained.

  “Yeah, Ed, you’re hearin’ it straight from an expert. Right, Earl?”

  Ed looked at his brother, sizing him up, taking notice of his gaunt appearance and the sunken eyes set back in their sockets. Earl looked back at Ed and realized what his brother was probably thinking. He shrugged his shoulders.

  Chapter 25

  THE GAFF

  So there’s this farm boy. Doesn’t get into town much,” Donny began the story with a grin. “But once a year, after crops are in, he treats himself to a night on the town. So he’s hangin’ out with the boys down at the pool hall. They’re drinkin’ and carryin’ on and shit. Pretty soon they all get around to talkin’ about their latest sexual conquests and whatnot. Now, the farm boy is just kinda sittin’ there not sayin’ nothin’. Well, after a while, the other guys look at him and says, ‘You’re bein’ awful quiet. What’s the matter with you, boy?’ And he says, ‘Well, hell, I ain’t never had none of that pussy y’all been talkin’ about.’”

  Earl chuckled as Donny continued, “They all laugh. They think that’s the funniest thing. They say, ‘Come on, boy, we’re gonna fix you up.’

  “So they all pitch in and take him to the local whorehouse. They’re standin’ outside. They give him twenty dollars and say, ‘Take this twenty. Give it to the lady inside and tell her you want to get laid.’ The farm boy says, ‘Okay,’ and heads on in.

  “Once he gets inside, he
sees this woman and she says, ‘What can I do for you, cowboy?’

  “He says, ‘Ma’am, I ain’t never done this before, and my friends out there gave me this here twenty dollars. Said I could come in and get laid.’

  “She says, ‘Well, all right then. You’re a special case. I’ll have to take care of you myself.’ So she stuffs the twenty into her bra, takes him by the hand, and leads him upstairs. Then she says, ‘So what’s it gonna be: French, sixty-nine, around-the-world?’

  “He says, ‘Ma’am, I don’t know one from t’other.’

  She says, ‘Well, c’mon now. French, sixty-nine, around-the-world?’

  “He says, ‘I don’t know, ma’am.’

  “She says, ‘Well, just pick one.’

  “He says, ‘Okay, mmm? I’ll try one of them sixty-nines.’

  “She says, ‘All right then.’

  “So they strip down and assume the position. They’re going at it. Pretty soon she realizes she’s got a little gas. She has to fart. She holds back as best she can, but one just kinda slips on out. Ppphhrrrrtt.”

  Earl chuckled again. Ed sat, hands crossed with his eyes closed, watching the light show behind his eyelids. He had been drawn in by Donny’s storyline and was trying to visualize the scene.

  “He doesn’t say nothin’,” continued Donny. “They keep on goin’. Pretty soon she feels another one comin’ on. Ppppphhhhrrrrrttt.

  “He still doesn’t say nothin’.” Donny gazes curiously at Earl and Ed. “So she leans back and says, ‘How you doin’ down there, cowboy?’

  “He says, ‘Ma’am, what yer doin’ to me is mighty fine. Mighty fine.’” Donny paused for dramatic effect before delivering the punch line: “‘But I don’t think I could take sixty-seven more of them sons-a-bitches!’”

  Earl laughed hysterically. Ed chuckled at first and then, opening his eyes, finally burst into his own fit of laughter. Donny took a swig of his beer, lit up a cigarette, and puffed out a big cloud, a proud, triumphant grin spreading across his face.

  “Pretty good, Donny. Pretty good,” admitted Earl as his loud guffawing tapered down to a giggle.

  “Not bad, eh, Ed? You hear that one before?” Donny asked.