Tweakerville: Part One

A trip to the back country gets dicey.

Part 1

My friend, Danny is my voice of reason. He’s always telling me what things I should and shouldn’t do. No one else pays attention to him, but I hear what he says. I just rarely listen to him. My name is Gerald Fitzpatrick and you can call me Fitz if you like. But never Jerry or Rick. I am eighteen years old and I live in Fuckknowswhereburg at the heart of some godforsaken midwest state, Iowa or Indiana. The name escapes me. I want to get high tonight so I call Danny. Danny and I’ve known each other for a long time. We grew up together, but were never friends until a couple summers back. I’m sitting in my kitchen and my parents are sleeping or something in the next room over. It’s a little after six in the evening and I really need to get out of my head for a minute. Danny’s more than down. He picks up the weed while I hit up an Am/Pm for some gas. We meet back at my place and I tell him I’ll drive. Danny likes grass as much as me but it stopped tripping him out the way he liked so now he’s got himself into a variety of pharmaceuticals. I don’t want him driving on a Xanny binge at least not with me in the seat beside him. As much as he likes to tell me right from wrong, he sure makes a lot of bad decisions. Danny climbs in next to me and I fire up the Chrysler. It used to be my cousin’s.

We decide we want to see something interesting happen tonight while we’re balls deep in some Purple Mr. Nice that Danny picked up. It’s good weed, better than what I used to be able to get my hands on. I haven’t had to smoke any brickweed since Colorado legalized. My main connect is buddies with some dispensary grower so I’ve been pretty spoiled the last two years. Purple Mr. Nice isn’t my favorite, but I need to smoke an Indica tonight if I’m going to be driving. I tell Danny I want to go to the Rat cave. There’s always something interesting happening at the Rat cave. Especially at night. I tell Danny as we’re driving to the cave about what happened there not but two nights ago. Some drunk hillbilly going on and on about this and that and getting more excited. He was reasonably tolerable until he started flashing his dagger around. That’s the kind of thing to take you right out of a Sativa trance. He started getting real aggressive around a group of spics that weren’t bothering no one. The hillbilly must have been pretty drunk because anyone with a pair of working eyes could see these spics weren’t your average Mexicans. The distinct blue and black markings that ran up their arms and necks and shoulders made their affiliation clear as day. The hillbilly must have thought they were some vaqueros or ranch hands or something because he kept calling them picker boys and w******s and a lot of other names. There were a lot of hicks there that night as well. Hicks and hillbillies are very different creatures and the distinction is an important one. Hicks listen to Johnny Cash, Hillbillies smoke meth and shoot road signs with shotguns. Hillbillies don’t smell right. You can smell a hillbilly a dozen yards downwind of you. They’re a lot more twisted than hicks. Two nights ago at the Rat cave when this particular hillbilly was getting rowdy, one of the hick boys thought he’d put an end to it. He put a hand on the hillbilly’s shoulder and the drunkard turned around and slashed the poor hick across his chest with his dagger. This is where the night got interesting. The hicks and the spics started talking to each other about the hillbilly. I heard one of the spics say Let’s whoop his a*s. The groups started getting excited and they started shouting as the idea got more and more talked about. I got two-by-four’s in my uncle’s truck, One of the hicks yelled. The lumber was promptly distributed and the angry conglomerate of gang members and country boys swarmed the hillbilly and beat him unconscious. It was a real spectacle. I’ve always believed, just as a general rule of thumb, that hicks and spics don’t mix, but there I sat as the drunken, angry bipartisan mob brutalized the hillbilly. I might have participated had I not been stuck in serious daze. Sativas always pull me out of what’s going on around me and make me into some sort of spectator or entranced observer. The hicks stripped the hillbilly of his jacket and boots and the kid who’d had his chest slashed took the dagger. One of the spics felt around his pants until he came up with his wallet. The spic whistled as he thumbed through the money. There must have been something like six hundred dollars in that hillbilly’s billfold. I remember watching that spic smile as he handed out the money to his friends and the hicks. That’s what the Rat cave is all about, I tell Danny as we draw nearer to our destination. Bringing different kinds of people together. Hicks and spics united against one crazy degenerate with a knife. Truly something beautiful.

I wouldn’t mind seeing something like that tonight, said Danny as he popped his third Xanny bar since we’d left my house.

Yeah, I said. Me neither.

We pull into the dirt lot outside of the Rat cave. Danny sees the sherrifs before I do. He gets frantic real quick and starts shoving all the pills and weed into the glove box.

We should probably go somewhere else, he says. I brake and throw it into reverse.

Yeah, I say. We get back on the road and he tells me to take a left.

Turn on to that road that goes by all the orchards, he says.

Out past the silos? I ask.

Yeah, he says. Out by the canyon.

But that's the boonies out there, man, I say. It's Tweakerville out there.

I guarantee there won't be no cops, he says. I turn on to the canyon road. After about ten miles the road turns to dirt. Houses get fewer and fewer and soon there aren’t any I can see for miles.

S**t, says Danny. I don’t think Verizon’s ever heard of this place. He holds his phone up for me to see. Same here, I nod. He puts his phone away. We pass a house off to the side of the road and see dim light coming from the windows. In front of the house are dozens of black trash bags bulging and spilling all over each other. After that it’s nothing but hills and fog. It’s too dark to see the canyon. Danny swallows another pill.

How many is that? I ask.

Five. He says. I shake my head.

Damn, I say. You might wanna slow down.

I think these are duds. He says. I don’t think they’re working. We drive about ten miles down the road.

Pull off here, says Danny. I slow down and pull into a big turn out next to the canyon. I shut off the car and everything goes dark.

This is perfect, I say.  Danny takes out another pill and starts grinding it into my dashboard with the prescription bottle.

If this doesn't work, I’m gonna tell that spic sonofabitch I want my money back. He leans forward and sniffs the yellow dust up into his head.

F*****g stupid, I say. We start blazing. Bowl after bowl we pack into Danny’s bong. It's amazing how much we can tolerate these days. Used to be that I’d take one rip and spend the next ten minutes hacking and wheezing and spitting. Now we pack brimmers and snap them through without so much as a cough afterword. I can tell that the Xannys are kicking in. Danny’s been slurring his speech and his head keeps rolling around like an infant’s. He should have stopped at three. Taking that fourth and fifth bar were bad ideas but railing the sixth was by far the worst notion Danny’s had in a good long while. He’s been telling me this story that I don’t care too much to listen to. He’s told me before and I didn’t like it then. Danny was sweet on a hick girl that went to school with us for a year and a half. Danny came to be pretty familiar with that girl and would always walk home with her after school. Danny said he knew that girl’s pa beat on her but there wasn’t anything he could do about it because her pa was drinking buddies with the sheriff. I hate hearing stories like that. No lady, no matter how intolerable, deserves to be beat on and any man that beats on a girl ought to be taken out back and shot in my opinion. I especially don’t like the story Danny’s telling because it seems to me like Danny had plenty of opportunity to do something about the matter but he didn’t. If it’d been my girl coming to school with a split lip, to me it wouldn’t matter who her daddy was or who he’s friends with; come hell or high water I’d insert myself into that sonofabitch’s life so fast he wouldn’t have time to blink. I’d get real involved, and that’s the way things should be in my opinion. Danny’s crying now. He’s got to the part of the story where the girl and her family packed up and left the state and how she doesn’t write him no more letters. He says he has nightmares about seeing her face all beat to hell and how there’s not a damn thing he can do about it on account of being so far away. I shake my head. Lord knows what the hell I’d do if it were my girl getting beat on. Whatever I’d do I’m sure I’d get my point across. They’d probably have to institutionalize me again.

The weed is half used up and I’m tired of Danny’s story so I change the subject. I tell Danny a story my cousin liked to tell me. When my cousin lived in the desert, he and the other marines would have what they called ‘bug wars.’ They’d go out and search for whatever creatures they could find. The marines collected scorpions, spiders, centipedes, roaches, anything that could pinch, bite, or sting and deposited them into these big metal bins that they’d filled halfway with sand. The marines would place bets and arrange matches. One day my cousin found what he believed to be a big worm. He thought he would throw his worm into one of the matches for fun. My cousin along with all the other marines were astounded when the worm started killing everything in its path. It would disappear beneath the sand and pounce on anything that came too close. My cousin and his friends threw as many scorpions and jerusalem crickets as they could find into the bin with the worm just to watch the thing butcher these creatures to no end. One of the corpsman stopped by to watch and became enraged when he peered into the bin. My cousin’s worm was in actuality a baby puff adder, one of the deadliest snakes in the area. My cousin liked to tell that story because he said the bug wars were a lot like his war or maybe even life in general. Conflict is inevitable but the rules seem clear. It’s a good fight for the most part and everyone is sure of their bet and everything is business as usual, but then someone comes and drops a puff adder in the bin.

Headlights. I stop dead in the middle of explaining my cousin’s metaphor for life.

Whats a puffy adder look like anyhow? Danny asks. His eyes are barely open.

Hold on, Danny, I say. Someone’s coming up the road. We both stare out the back of the Chrysler as the headlights wind their way up the road in front of us.

Let's turn around and go back, says Danny.

Yeah, I say. As soon as I fire up the engine the headlights in front of us stop moving. I make the swiftest three-point turn I can and start driving back the way we came.  

Danny is getting nervous. The headlights belong to an old pickup. It looks like it's falling apart. The driver closed the distance between us pretty quick and that's what's got Danny feeling anxious. I'll admit I'm pretty uneasy too. I've been watching the guy in my rear view mirror and I can tell he's from around these parts. He keeps taking his hand off the wheel to scratch his face. His brights come on. I'm not sure what he wants me to do so I speed up a bit. He catches up quick and flashes his brights.

Maybe you should pull over, says Danny.

Like hell, I say. The driver lays into his horn, really hammers it. I look at him in my mirror. He looks like he's yelling but I'm not sure what. He's getting real close and now I'm really nervous.

What the f**k does he want? Says Danny. The driver connects with the back end of the Chrysler. I clench the wheel and try not to swerve off the road. Danny is bone white. He rams us again and my heart starts pounding. I stare up at the rear view mirror wide eyed as the driver screams and pounds his horn. Danny starts fumbling with his phone.

F**k, he says. Still no goddamn signal. I can see up ahead the dim light from the last house we’d passed. I slam my foot down on the gas and lurch forward. I accelerate toward the house as fast as I can and as soon as I lose the pickup in my rear view mirror I turn of my lights. I slow down as I approach the house and turn off the road and pull around behind the massive heap of trash bags. I shut off the engine and hold my breath while Danny holds his. We watch the pickup pass by. I look over at Danny. His eyes are shut tight and drool is collecting at the corner of his mouth. He’s higher than f**k off those Xanny bars. I pat his shoulder and his eyes snap open wild.

I told you it’s Tweakerville out here, I say. F*****g hillbillies all methed out.

Let’s go home, Fitz. Danny shuts his eyes again. I sigh and unbuckle my seatbelt.

I gotta see how bad that f****r did my bumper for, I say. I step out of the Chrysler and walk around to the tail end. I use the light from my phone to inspect the damage. I hop back in the Chrysler and slam the door.

How bad? Danny asks.

Pretty bad, I say. He must have knocked something loose, there’s gas leaking everywhere.

F**k, says Danny. Well turn it on and see how much you got left. I turn the key and the engine just whimpers. I give it a few more good turns and still nothing happens.

We’re fucked, says Danny.

Yeah, I say. We’re gonna have to use that guy’s landline to call a tow. I gesture over to the house.

Jesus, says Danny. I’m not sure I like the sound of that.

Me neither, I say.

We see someone moving around as we walk to the house.

What’s he doing? Danny asks.

Looks like he’s washing some dishes, I say. Danny looks at his phone.

It’s almost two in the morning, says Danny. Who washes dishes at two in the morning?

Someone that smokes meth, Danny. We reach the door and pause to get our wits about us. There’s a NO SOLICITING sign nailed to the door. Through the window we can see a very tall and slender man with his back to us scrubbing furiously at a plate in his hand. His head is completely shaved. Danny looks at me and shakes his head. He’s six bars into a Xanny binge and he still knows this is a bad idea. I knock on the door. We watch as the man stops scrubbing and hesitates for a moment before setting the plate down. He grabs a hand cloth and begins frantically scrubbing the counter around the sink.

Just a minute, just a minute! We hear him call from inside the house. He disappears from view and a few seconds later the door opens. He stares at us and scratches his head. He looks very surprised.

What you boys need so early in the mornin’? He asks. Danny and I exchange looks.

Our car broke down, I say. Can we borrow your phone? The man stares at us for a minute.

We don’t have a phone, he says. But Bill’s real good with cars. He can take a look at it when he gets back. He just stepped out for a while, should be back not too much longer now, why don’t you boys come in? Maybe it’s the drugs we’re on, but against our better judgement we nod and step inside.

We tell the man what happened and he shakes his head knowingly.

Yeah, he says. Some people out here sure are strange. The man leads us into a dining room and tells us to sit down and rest. Danny and I sit at the table. I look around the room. It’s clear the man is a hunter. Boar heads and antlers of elk and deer are all mounted on different spots on the walls. A couple of old duck guns are in a display case above the fireplace. Danny keeps checking his phone for service. Suppose since we’re up already I’ll fix us some breakfast, says the man. Danny and I look at each other and shrug. The man fries up a plate of bacon and ham and scrambles about a dozen eggs which he places in a large bowl on the center of the table. Help yourself, he says.

Thank you, I say as I scoop a ladleful of scrambled eggs onto my plate. The man sits down to join us.

I reckon you must be around votin’ age, then? The man is staring at me and shoving eggs in his mouth.

Yeah, I say. But we don’t really vote though.

Why the hell not? The man puts his fork down. You know people die so you can vote, right?

Yeah, I say. My cousin actually died last year. I would vote if I could but the state won’t let me. Danny here just doesn’t care for politics too much. The man nods his head.

Your cousin was in the army? The man asks.

No, I say. He was a Devil Dog. The man starts eating again.

Yeah, Bill’s brother was a marine, says the man. We all eat in silence for a few minutes. You know I seen on the news last night some folks back east were makin’ a fuss about some gays gettin’ married.

Yeah? I ask.

Yeah, they had signs and everythin’ and the police had to come. The man is staring down at his plate.

Doesn’t sound like breaking news, I say.

You know gays can get married legal now, says the man.

Yeah, I remember hearing something about that, I say.

I never thought in my lifetime the government would let gays get married legal.

Yeah, I say.

So what you think about it? The man asks.

About what? I wipe my mouth with my sleeve.

About the government lettin’ gays get married legal, says the man. It’s one a the most important issues in our country’s recent history, you gotta have an opinion.

I don’t really think about it one way or the other, I say. I imagine gays must be pretty happy and I’ll bet all the wedding planners in the country are pretty happy for all the extra business.

It make you happy? The man asks.

I guess I’m happy I live in a country where one of the most important issues is if the government will let gays get married or not. I scoop more eggs onto my plate. In some countries the biggest issue for people is hoping someone’s not gonna cut their heads off or kidnap their children and turn them into soldiers. I guess I feel pretty fortunate to live in a country that has the privilege of  getting to fuss over who can marry who and not have to worry about warlords and death squads and cholera. The man nods. Danny is eating with his eyes closed.

I suppose we are a pretty fortunate country, says the man.

Yeah, I say. You know what a kid from Ethiopia would say if you asked him his opinion about gay marriage?

What? Asks the man.

He’d ask you if you could give him some clean water to drink.

I think I see what you mean, says the man. He shovels more eggs on to his plate. Me and Bill were fixin’ to get hitched a few years back but it wasn’t legal yet. We’ve lived together so long now that gettin’ married wouldn’t really change anything.

Makes sense, I say. Danny isn’t eating anymore. It’s clear he’s on the wrong side of those Xannys now. Everything all right? The man asks.

Oh he’s just tired, I say. The hillbilly just stares at me.

You know I’m not too sure where Bill’s at, says the man. Why don’t you set up in the room down the hall and get some rest?

Yeah, I say. I think we both could use a nap.

Go along then, says the man. I think I’ll take me a nap also. When Bill gets here I’ll have him take a look at your vehicle. If it’s too broke we can give you a lift into town.

Yeah that’d be great, I say as I help Danny to his feet. We really appreciate the help. I walk Danny down the hall. I hold him up against the wall with one arm as I fumble with the door with my free hand. He can’t support the weight of his own head and he’s gone limp from the waist down. I struggle to get him on to the bed in the dark.

Well, Danny, I say. Looks like we’re going to be here for a while. Danny says something unintelligible and I nod as if I understand what he’s mumbling. I sit on the edge of the bed and listen to the noises coming from the kitchen. The man is washing dishes. I lay out across the foot of the bed as Danny starts snoring. I hear the sink shut off in the kitchen and then the light coming down the hall goes out. I hear a door close and figure the man must have gone to sleep. I check the time on my phone. It’s a little after three in the morning. There’s no sense in staying up any later so I shut my eyes and listen to Danny snore.

I snap awake some time later. I check the time. F**k. It’s only three-thirty. Danny isn’t snoring anymore.

Hey, Danny you awake? I whisper.

Yeah, says Danny.

Did you hear something? I ask.

I don’t know, says Danny. I just woke up.

Yeah, I say. I think I heard a noise. We both sit silent for a minute in the dark until we hear what woke us up.

Sounds like squeaking, I say.

Maybe they got rats, Fitz.

Yeah, I say. Maybe.  

Where you going? Asks Danny.

Gonna see what that noise is.

Fitz, it’s probably just rats, says Danny. I turn my phone’s flashlight on and make my way to the door. S**t, says Danny. Don’t leave me by myself. I open the door and wait for Danny to join me before going out in the hall. We step lightly and listen for the squeaking. I try not to get distracted by all the s**t this hillbilly’s got in his house. There’s a couple newspapers framed on the wall, but I don’t stop to read them. There’s a couple pushpins stuck into the drywall, but they’re not holding anything. Danny and I stop in our tracks.

Did you hear it? I ask.

Yeah, says Danny. Rats or mice, Fitz. Or you know what it could be is this house is so old it could just be the boards creaking. I change my direction and follow the sound of the squeaking. We walk through the living room and I try not to notice the pile of keys on the coffee table or the stack of passports beneath them. I’m still not quite sober enough to make heads or tails of anything. As we walk deeper into the house we hear a different noise. It’s not as loud as the squeaking, but it’s constant. It’s like a soft, clinking jingle, like the sound of loose change in someone’s pocket.

Look around for a hatch, Danny, I say.

No, I don’t think I should, says Danny. I turn around and shine my flashlight at him.

Danny, look around for a hatch. We hear the squeaking again. I trace the sound to the back of the room and stop at the foot of a white door. Danny hasn’t moved from where I left him. I reach out and try the door and cuss when it doesn’t budge. I walk back to the coffee table and grab a handful of the keys.

Come on, Fitz let’s just go back to the room, Danny whispers. I walk back to the white door and start testing the keys. Danny finally joins me. He moans as the fifth key sinks into the doorknob. It clicks as I turn it to the left. I open the door and squint at the dark. I take a step back as I realize the floor’s been torn out. From what I can tell I’m looking at some sort of basement, but there aren’t any stairs. It’s just a pitfall from the entrance of the white door. I shine my light down into the pit. I try my best to keep my composure as the dark shapes below me become more familiar in the light from my phone. There must be about fifteen of them, all chained together. It looks like they’ve all been shaved. They keep squirming around and making their restraints rattle. A couple of them look older but most of them look a lot younger than me. Danny doesn’t keep his cool.

F**k, he says. Fitz, what the f**k is that?

Keep your f*****g voice down Danny, I say. We gotta get out of here.

F**k, Fitz I don’t think I can go back through the kitchen, says Danny. His room is over there, I’m scared we’ll wake him up.

Yeah, I say. There’s gotta be a backdoor we can use. Look around.

Fitz, please just find it. I’m just gonna follow you,  I don’t want to look around anymore. I shut the white door.

Fine, I say. But you gotta keep it together, being scared’s gonna get us both in trouble. Just breathe and be calm. Danny nods and I start looking for an exit. There’s a screen door on the other side of the room. I open it with hands as deft as I can make them and step through. Danny falls in step behind me. I’m pretty sure we’re in a garage but I don’t look around to make sure. The only thing I’m looking for is a way out of this house.

Fitz, says Danny. This button probably opens the garage door.

It’ll be too loud, I say.

What should we do? Danny asks. I scan the garage.

Well there aren’t any other doors so it looks like we’re gonna have to run like hell.

Jesus, says Danny.

You’re gonna hit that button and as soon as that door lifts up enough to crawl under, we’re booking it.

It’s damn near fifteen miles back to town, says Danny.

And we’ll run all fifteen unless you plan on getting anymore privy to whatever the hell is going on here.

What the hell is going on here? Says Danny.

I sure as f**k don’t want to find out, I say. Whatever it is, it’s not good.

Ok, says Danny. If you’re ready, I’ll hit it.

Hit it. Danny slams his hand on the button and the garage lights up. Chains above us start moving and the garage door starts sliding up. Danny and I dash across the garage and duck underneath the door. We start sprinting in the dark. I’m getting frantic trying to pinpoint exactly where the road is. I can see up ahead a barbed wire fence and beyond it, the heap of trash bags concealing the Chrysler. I hurtle the barbed wire and almost lose my footing on the landing. I hear a crash behind me and turn around to see Danny face down in the dirt. He must not have cleared the fence. I look past him back at the house. The lights are on and someone’s moving around inside. Danny starts crying out for me. His leg is twisted in a strange fashion and even in the dark I can see the white bone sticking through the leg of his jeans.

I’ll come back with help! I call as I turn and run for the road. Danny’s screaming now. I think to myself, Doesn’t that boy have any goddamn sense? I make it to the road and break into a steady sprint. I run until I can’t hear Danny screaming anymore.

...

My cousin once told me I was lucky on account of my dad marrying a spic girl. My cousin said hicks should have no trouble with spics and that it was a beautiful thing for one to marry the other. He said I should thank God for being mixed. He said it gave me more freedom. I could go where hicks go and they would tolerate me. Spics would leave me be too, although I looked a lot more like them when I was younger than I do now. Our town only has a couple high class types, but even the rich people would treat me better than most peckerwoods. I’m not too sure how lucky I am though. I think it’s been awful lonely just going around and being tolerated all the time. I think that’s what drove me crazy and got me holed up for a couple years and why the state won’t let me vote. The more I think about it, the more I realize my cousin wasn’t as smart as I’d always thought he was growing up. Now I think my cousin was just a hick. A hick with a thing for spic girls.

...

I’m not sure how long I’ve been running but my heart is leaping out of my chest and my legs feel like they might give out. I collapse to my knees and catch my breath while sweat runs down my neck and face. All these hills are making me pant like a damn dog. I pick myself up and run up the next one. I stop again at the top and gaze down in disbelief. It’s the truck that almost ran us off the road. I drop down to my stomach and hold my breath. I squint down the hill at the truck. It’s pulled off to the side of the road. Both its doors are wide open and its lights are on, but the hillbilly is nowhere in sight. I wait a few minutes but nothing happens. I rise to my feet and slowly make my way down the hill, creeping along the side of the road opposite the truck and staying as close to the tree line as I can. When the truck is directly across from me I crouch down and wait again. Still no sign of the hillbilly. I start to get angry. Maybe it’s the fact that this meth-addled bumpkin almost made me drive into a canyon, maybe it’s because I know Danny’s either dead or worse, but something burning flares up inside of me and I cross the street to the hillbilly’s truck. I climb up into the driver’s seat and start looking around for something sharp. The syringes on the floor aren’t sturdy enough. I open the glove box and find what I’m looking for. I turn the knife over in my hand before taking it out of its leather holster. There’s a shotgun resting on the back seat but I only glance at it long enough to see Bill Hickok scratched into the wooden stock. I slash the front and back left tires and that gives me some satisfaction. I carve TWEAKER into the side of the truck and grin. I put the knife in its holster and pocket the thing as I walk away from the old pickup. I know it should be enough. I know I should keep walking and not stop until I get to town. I know that hillbilly could come back at any minute and that I should put as much distance between me and that truck as possible. But it’s not enough. I turn around and walk back to the truck. I climb inside and grab the shotgun. It’s a Remington Model 31. I sling it over my shoulder and step out of the truck. My heart sinks and I realize the mistake I’ve made. Above me on top of the hill and outlined in the breaking dawn of the new day stands the hillbilly. I can’t see his face but I know it’s him. He’s holding a rifle in one hand and what I can only imagine is some kind of animal in the other. I take off for the trees and don’t look back. I can hear him hollering behind me up on the hill as I scramble through the thickening wilderness around me. The sound of the rifle cracks behind me and I can hear the projectile sail through the bushes and brambles a few feet to my left. I take cover behind a fallen tree. I lay down on my back and hug the shotgun to my chest.

They’re gonna take me back, I say. They won’t let me out this time. The rifle rings out again, echoing through the canyon. I clench the shotgun and close my eyes.

Please, oh God, don’t kill me, I say. Please, God don’t take me back!

Reviews

[Sarah Wilson]

I like how you use his prospective to kind of set the tone and pace. I'm sure it was intentional, but maybe a few more details splattered here and there would help build a mental picture. Love it otherwise! It's simple yet compelling, great job!

[Warrior]

The title caught my attention with tweakerville, it was creative and funny at the same time. It's a good way to drawn in people.

[Zoë]

Not really my cup of tea, but it was still good. You're really good at writing and you did a fantastic job of not giving anything away. It was suspenseful almost the entire time and I never knew what was going to happen next. So, over all, it was a great read. I just have a few things to point out, and keep in mind that I don't mean for any of this to be mean, I'm just voicing my thoughts. Also, a lot of your good totally outweighs the bad, so this is just me being really picky.

- You're character development was a little lacking, you just didn't build a lot of character throughout the story. You try to tell us a bit about Fitz, but all that really comes across is that he's a mixed country boy that went to jail once and likes drugs... That's about it, and he was the character you gave us the most on. With physiological horror stories like this it would be nice to see a bit more personality built throughout time. I do understand that that can be hard to do, but I believe you have plenty of space to add more personality to your characters.

- He abandoned his friend. This may go a little into building character, but Fitz doesn't seem like that horrid of a person. They're friends right? You wouldn't abandon your friend in the lawn of some crazy guy, would you? So I don't think Fitz should either. Though, if that's the rout you want to take, I would suggest having him help Danny into a hiding spot first, then leave to get help. And, on that, he may have been mad at the hillbilly, but I don't think he would take the time to desecrate the car if he's trying to get help for the friend he just abandoned. If he knew his friend would be safe for a while then I don't see it being a problem, but he doesn't.

- Your conclusion. I can see where you were going with the cliffhanger, but if this is where you're stopping the story then I think it's a bit much. You're basically leaving us with zero questions answered, which I don't think is a good thing for a short story. We don't know what's up with the people in the basement. We don't know what's going to happen to Danny. We don't know what's going to happen to Fitz. We don't know what's up with the dude in the house. We just don't know. There are too many questions, not enough answers, and a lot of tangents.

- The whole thing about him not being able to vote. Where you have the explanation of why he can't vote is really weirdly placed. Why would he be thinking about why he can't vote/his cousin when he is literally running for his life? It just doesn't make sense. I think it would make more sense if you had that placed around when he first tells the guy that he can't vote. It's a short story, so you don't need to go into detail. You can just casually have Fitz say "Oh, I can't vote" and then the guy could ask "Why?" and he could simply respond "I was arrested and now the state wont let me" or something like that. We don't need a whole explanation, it takes up space and distracts from the story and ambiance. On top of that, we don't really need to know that Fitz if "mixed", it's not really important to the plot of the story you're developing.

That's about all I caught on my own, if there's anything specific you want me to look at (grammar, spelling, etc.) just let me know. Again, I'm sorry if any of this comes off as rude or mean, that's truly not my intention. The worst thing I can do is lie to you about your writing. So, even though I didn't really talk about it, I want to reassert that this is very good. Even if the topic wasn't my favourite I really did enjoy reading it, and I'm glad you shared it with me :)
Oh yeah, even though I thought it was kinda weird and didn't really fit in the story I really liked the part where he vandalized the car. I don't know why, but I just found it hilarious how he took the time to do that.

[Evan James Devereaux]

Thank you for analyzing my story so thoroughly! I'll definitely take your points into consideration when I write the second draft. One thing that you have to understand about Fitz is that he's not of sound mind. He wasn't arrested, but institutionalized. He spent time in a psych ward for reasons he doesn't get into. I felt that having a narrator that doesn't have a firm grasp of reality would allow me to write a very ambiguous story where the reader feels as confused as the narrator. Fitz isn't a trustworthy narrator, his mental condition could lead the reader to assume that the information Fitz is providing them might not be very valid. This all boils down to the final moments of the story where Fitz seems on the verge of a mental breakdown and begins to beg that he not be institutionalized. Now the reader has to wonder how much of what has transpired was true to how Fitz described it or if he's just completely insane. It does need to be cleaned up around the edges though and I'll definitely change or add to the story for clarification purposes if its too ambiguous or open ended. Thank you again for your review, very concise and analytical.

[Zoë]

Ah, that actually makes a lot of sense. But you may want to make it more clear that Fitz is a little crazy. You do have the line "I think that’s what drove me crazy and got me holed up for a couple years and why the state won’t let me vote." but that can be interpreted as him doing something "crazy" that caused him to get thrown in prison. Or, at least, that's how I interpreted it.
Having a narrator that doesn't entirely grasp reality is a great idea and a really interesting concept. But from my read through Fitz seems a bit too "with it". He doesn't seem disconnected with the world, which is what you may have been going for, but I think that's why I was mostly getting confused by some of his actions. So I think you should make it a bit more obvious that Fitz isn't a reliable narrator.

[Evan James Devereaux]

I'm currently writing a part two and hopefully I'll be able to provide some more background context regarding Fitz's struggle with mental health.

[Dark_Poet]

This story truly is amazing.. I love how you made it mysterious yet funny! (fav part: fuckknowswhereburg) xD. Truly amazing! One question though, would you continue writing this Story soon? You kinda left me in suspense xD.

[Evan James Devereaux]

Thank you for taking the time to read it! And actually I wrote this with the intent of keeping it a short story, but do you think I should make it longer?