by William Bebb
A skinny man that was naked, except for a red barbecue apron with the words Kiss the Cook written on the front, walked out of a small metal shed. He carried a large white propane cylinder and grunted while setting it on the ground. He turned, put the padlock back on the shed door, and bent to pick up the cylinder again. While bending over he let loose a long, foul smelling, unmelodious, fart.
A woman's deep voice came from a nearby double-wide trailer that was covered in camouflage netting. “You best get all that out your system while yer out there. And hurry up sweet cheeks, the generator's about to go tits up.”
The skinny man hefted the propane tank and muttered in a strained voice, “Where is that damn boy? He's the one who should be hauling this shit, not me.”
The propane tank weighed fifty pounds and the man had to carry it hugged tightly against his chest as he slowly duck walked back to the generator shed. The propane powered generator misfired and died as he dropped the tank by the wooden shed built beside the trailer.
He uncoupled the old tank and after several rather vulgar profanities attached the fresh container. He checked for leaks, opened the valves, and pressed the generator's starter button. The generator made a loud backfire and failed to start.
A scream broke the silence. But unlike the other screams they'd heard over the last few days this one seemed disturbingly close. The man ran to the front of the trailer and saw the woman sitting on the wooden porch holding a double barrel shotgun out to him with one hand. Her other hand pointed toward the trailer park's trash dump and she looked excited while whispering, “Bet it ain't a door to door salesman calling. Go make whoever it is feel welcome.”
Smiling at her, he took the shotgun and winked.
He started to trot toward the dump and abruptly stopped. Snapping open the shotgun he quickly confirmed it was loaded. As he looked at the shells in the gun the scream came again only now much closer.
The fat woman on the porch ripped open a candy bar wrapper and bit into it as she stared at the man's naked skinny butt. She leaned forward in her wheelchair, grinning with anticipation as the nearly naked skinny man crept quietly past a large boulder pointing the shotgun ahead. “Be vewwy quiet. He's not huntin wabbits,” she whispered to herself, chuckled, and then crammed the rest of the chocolate bar into her mouth with a stifled giggle.
There was a brief metallic clang followed by an extremely loud scream from further down the path. The man in the apron ran forward smiling while holding the shotgun almost casually. He looked down the path and saw someone sitting on the ground yanking on his leg while yelping like an animal caught in a trap, which is precisely what he was.
Hector managed to step in one of the dozen hidden metal bear traps that they had placed around their trailer to discourage unwelcome visitors. The razor sharp metal edges had nearly severed his foot from his leg. Blood poured from torn arteries as he grabbed the trap and his leg, pulling ineffectually on both.
“Well amigo, it looks like you might have to skip running the Boston Marathon this year,” the skinny man said, while scratching his butt and smiled down at the slowly dying yelping man.
Hector was in agony, but upon hearing the man’s voice his first and strongest impulse was to kill. He sniffed and snorted before moving toward the man with incredible speed on his hands and one free leg while yelling up at him as he dragged the leg in the bear trap behind him.
The man with the shotgun wouldn't have believed it possible that anyone in that much obvious pain could move so fast if he hadn't seen it himself. He backed up several steps and pointed the shotgun at the charging man.
The bear trap was attached to a chain that was padlocked to a sturdy tree. When the chain reached its maximum length the odd looking and unbelievably fast man collapsed face down in the path with a sudden jerk. He howled and within seconds turned back to the trap and tried to pull himself loose of it again.
“Damn boy. You just don't know when yer licked, do ya? Are those cactus needles stuck all over your ugly puss?”
The stranger didn't answer. Instead he started whining as his fingers were torn on the bear trap's blades.
“Will you quit yelping like a bitch in heat and answer me?” The man asked looking down with a mixture of disgust and fascination, as Hector strained forward drooling and snarling at him once more.
Hector was infuriated and dying, and yet the man’s voice triggered one last surge of inner strength and he sprang forward howling. As he leaped, the sharpened metal edges of the trap broke through the last bit of bone and sinew that was holding him back and he was free, albeit missing a foot. He snarled and started forward leaving behind his severed appendage and a trail of blood.
“Vaya con Dios!” The man shouted, before firing both barrels of the shotgun at the now free one footed mad man.
At a distance of less than three feet, the double barreled shotgun blast left nothing above Hector’s neck. His body collapsed in the path, minus a foot and a cactus needle covered head. A bright drippy splatter of red, white and gray coated the plants where the remnants of Hector's head had been blown apart.
The man with the shotgun listened intently for over a minute and didn't hear anyone else in the area. Satisfied that he had efficiently defended his home, he whistled happily while sauntering back to the trailer.
“Did you get him? Was it anyone we know?” The fat woman asked through her chocolate coated lips.
“We didn't get a chance to exchange pleasantries,” he said, handing her the shotgun. “But I'll tell you one thing, Sugar Tits, I think he was royally fucked up. Looked to me like the dumb ass beaner had a bad case of rabies or got a hold of some really nasty drugs.”
“I'm very proud of you. Now go fix the generator, numb nuts. It's hotter than Rambo in his birthday suit, but not near as nice.”
“Yes dear,” he said, trudging back to the generator shed.
