IV. Backwoods Necroplois

Shitkicker death match.

We're on the riverbank. Outskirts of Hell. Fleets of burning slave ships drift by along the waterfront. The locals stare with contempt and complain about the "tourists" constantly pouring in and passing through. They sit on the porches of their rundown shacks, polishing their shotguns and drinking jugs of whiskey. Mangy hellhounds lie at the feet of their masters, scratching and growling.

Rusted truck frames lie half buried on the bone-littered shore like ancient ruins. Nooses hang from the trees. Snakes cover the ground. The air is thick with buzzing swarms of cicadas, locusts, horseflies, mosquitoes...God knows what else. Toads and crickets play a swamp dirge somewhere in the distant darkness. Torches light the scene. If I had to sum it up in a word--uninviting.

We're forced to trek on foot due to the untimely demise of the trucker's eighteen-wheeler. We trudge along the muddy dirt road through the sunless twilight. Humid as Hell...s**t, never mind. Guess that's a little redundant. Humid as here, is what I meant. Whatever. F**k this place.

Hostile eyes follow us. Distrusting faces glare at us from decrepit windows and doorways. Whispering as we walk past them, never addressing us directly. There's a man sharpening an axe on a grindstone. I avoid eye contact with him.

We move further down the trail, deeper into the festering woods. Smoke in the air. There's something burning. You can smell it from here. Old tires and vinyl siding.

Then I see the sign. ARSON HILLS TRAILER COURT.

"Hey Coal, what do you know about this place?"

"What makes you think I know anything about this hellhole? You think I'm just your personal trailer-trash ambassador? F**k you, a*****e."

We arrive at the changing of the guards. Not a warm welcome. They recognize my trailer-trash ambassador immediately.

"What are you doin' back here, Pigfucker? I thought we warned you to stay out," says the thug with the monkey wrench.

"He don't listen so good," says the thug with the shovel.

"You and your friend ain't welcome here. So why don't you just turn the f**k around before things get ugly," says the thug with the chain whip.

I raise an eyebrow at the trucker but say nothing.

"Now look, fellas," Coal starts, "we're just passin' through. We don't want no trouble."

"Oh yeah? Well I didn't want you knockin' up my sister!" says the thug with the spiked baseball bat.

"She was already pregnant when I got there!"

"You're a lyin' sack a' s**t!" says the thug with the brass knuckles.

"Let's take him to see Ricky. He'll know what to do with 'em," says the thug with the tire iron.

"Alright you two. Time to meet the king," says the thug with...actually I lost track. One of them, take your pick. I think it was Monkey Wrench again.

Surrounded by glue-huffers, knuckle-draggers, and mouth-breathers. We size up the group. I didn't catch any introductions so I'll just address them by their weapons.

I peg Monkey Wrench as the alpha male, possibly with a GED. That would make him the smart one. He'll be trickier to outwit than the others. He seems to call the shots and make the moves.

Shovel Thug is a long-haired metal-head with a gnarly beard. He's wiry, and the tallest of the pack by at least half a foot. He'll have the best reach in a fight. He's wearing spiked armbands and a Danzig shirt. He could prove dangerous.

Chain Whip is short and skinny. He's shirtless and covered in scars and tattoos. He's twitchy and more animated than the others. He's got a sadistic grin and a crazy look in his eyes. He may not be the biggest or strongest of the tribe, but there's a taint of madness about him. Never drop your guard around a psychopath.

The brat with the bat looks about sixteen years old. Frail child in baggy clothes. Not an issue. I'm going to name him Short Stop.

Knuckleduster has a build like a brick wall and looks like a circus strongman. He's got a shaved head and a wicked handlebar mustache. He's dressed in a prison jumpsuit. Definitely the bruiser in the group; one to stay clear of.

Tire Iron is medium build and average height. He seems calm and calculated. Other than that he's tricky to read. Might be a wild card in a melee.

I don't like our chances in a 6-on-2 straight fight. Maybe I'll think of something before the s**t-kicker blitzkrieg is unleashed upon us. First we have to meet the king, apparently.

They lead us through a rusty iron gate. A crookedly hung sign reads KEEP OUT MOTHER FUCKERS. Every trailer in the lot is on fire. Not spreading fire, just casual, continuous infernos. Almost decorative.

Mangled pit bulls and dirty children loiter in every yard. Tricycles and empty beer cans rest on a layer of dirt and broken glass. Cigarette butts litter the ground like spent confetti. A grease monkey working on a Firebird studies us as we pass. A drunk pregnant girl blows a kiss. The trucker winks back. A five year old throws rocks at us. There's a guy in a lawn chair being tattooed. He stares at us and spits.

We stop in front of a mountain of burning tires. It's a backwoods monument for lowbrow heathens. The stench could make eyes bleed. Black smoke doesn't just cover the sky, it is the sky. It crawls inside your lungs and unpacks a suitcase.

Faces look warped and sinister in the unholy glow of the strange greenish flames. Make that color-shifting flames. Now it's bright blue, now a deep crimson violet. White trash Christmas tree of the Gods. The infernal lightshow swims around inside my skull like a Technicolor peyote dream. Starting to get light-headed from the fumes.

Short Stop lights a smoke and takes a drag, coughing. Monkey Wrench smacks him in the back of the head and steals the cigarette for himself ("thanks, kid"). He tosses aside a few tires at the bottom of the pile to reveal an iron door. He raps on the door three times with the wrench. A narrow slit opens with a quick loud scrape. A pair of eyes scans him and a gruff voice utters, "State your business!" from behind the locked door.

"We need to see Ricky," Monkey Wrench answers back.

"No audience with the king today. Come back tomorrow." The narrow opening slams shut.

"D****t, just let us in! This is important!"

The slot reopens. "Come back tomorrow." The slot closes again.

"Tell him we got two hogs that need slaughterin'!" Chain Whip yells with a little too much enthusiasm.

Open slot. "Butcher ain't here. Out drinkin' with the Hangman." Closed slot.

"Look, it's really simple," Monkey Wrench tries again, "We've got a fugitive and a trespasser that need a fair trial...and a severe a*s-beating. So just let us in."

Open. "No trials today. Come back tomorrow." Closed.

"Aw c'mon!" Shovel Thug gripes. "But the cable's out! What are we supposed to do all day?!"

Monkey Wrench becomes pensive for a moment, then in a somber voice asks, "It's the queen, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Is she drunk?"

"Enormously."

"Just let us in. I'll calm her down."

The door swings open. The hinges squeal.

The hallway is a twisting patchwork of hollowed-out school buses and scraps of aluminum crudely welded together. The coiling downward slant is unlit aside from the lantern of the gatekeeper. We follow him and the others down the warped path, trying to keep our balance on the skewed panels of the floor.

Not quite sure what to expect. Rats scurry away from the light. Out of the corner of my eye I see a possum smoking a cigarette. Don't ask.

There's torchlight illuminating what we will refer to as the courtyard...or the throne room...or whatever the hell these drunken dime-store architects want to call it. It's a sprawling orgy of crippled double-wides with delusions of grandeur. Splayed open walls have been ripped into sections, then haphazardly reconnected to form massive chambers with vaulted ceilings. A monument to poor craftsmanship and instability. Only through the perpetual intervention of nail-guns and duct tape is the structure still intact. Maybe a tornado god lives here, who knows.

His highness, King Ricky. Mid to late forties, long hair, tattoos and a beer gut. Looks like an old biker, burned out from too many years of drugs and booze. His throne is a roadside recliner pulled from the trash heap. His cardboard crown is origami with a beer case. He drinks cheap bourbon straight from the bottle and smokes a joint from a roach clip.

There's a woman beside him, swaying. Bitching and moaning. Mumbling and staggering. Occasionally nodding out. The chamber echoes with half-articulated shouts and incomprehensible accusations. Unrelenting verbal abuse pours out of her throat--obscenities seamlessly melded with gibberish in an invented language that will never be translated. A whiskey-breath banshee with a face like a mummy. She sucks in dignity like a vortex and spits out soul-wrenching shame in its place. We all feel it, and it leaves us weak.

The king takes another drink.

The gatekeeper lets out a conspicuous cough to signal our presence. The queen, still rambling, pays no mind. Ricky nods and says, "She ain't gonna shut up, you might as well just talk over her."

Short Stop makes the indictment. "That fat f****r knocked up my sister and then skipped town!"

"Everybody's knocked up your sister," comes the snide comment from Shovel Thug. Short Stop tries to make a threat in response, but cowers from the raised backhand.

The king ponders the accusation. "Is that it?"

"I want justice!" the brat whines before the court.

"Why don't you quit bein' such a little b***h," Chain Whip snaps. "Look, you're sister's a w***e. Okay? You got it? Nobody here cares about your dumb s****y sister! Hell, I knocked up your sister before, you gonna whoop my a*s?!"

King Ricky says, "He's right, kid. Your sister's a w***e. I think it's about time you accepted that."

"That ain't true!" the kid screams.

Ricky points to a cage filled with captives, both men and women of all races. And a horse. He says, "Everybody in that dungeon has fucked your sister. I'm getting tired of doin' the same goddamn trial every week. The dungeon's full. I don't even feed 'em anymore, it costs too damn much. I oughta just let 'em go free."

"You oughta kill 'em! Nobody messes with my sister and gets away with it!"

"Just let it go, kid. Nobody gives a s**t. Ain't nothing wrong with whorin'."

The queen blurts out, "Hell yeah! I'll f**k all'a y'all! Who's first!"

The King lets out a deep sigh and rubs his temple. Then he looks up at Coalburner and says, "Alright, we're gonna do this the easy way. Did you f**k his sister? Just say yes, we all know you did."

Coal says, "Yeah, I did it. My bad."

"Well don't do it again. Alright, you're free to go."

The brat starts throwing a fit.

Shovel Thug says, "She's a sweet piece a' a*s, ain't she, Pigfucker?"

Coal grins and says, "F****n' A!"

Chain Whip starts making pelvic thrusts in front of Short Stop and tells him, "I'm f****n' your sister tonight! Ain't nobody gonna stop me!"

Shovel Thug calls, "Shotgun!"

Knuckleduster calls, "Backseat."

Chain Whip says, "You want in on this, Pigfucker? Only spot we got left open is Southpaw."

"I don't know. Is she left-handed?"

The brat turns red in the face with anger. He grits his teeth and tears begin to well up in his eyes. He looks like he's about to fly off the handle in a homicidal teen tantrum.

And he does. Typical.

Short Stop slings the nail-spiked bat straight into Chain Whip's gut, earning a scream of pain.

The longhair in the Danzig shirt slams his shovel full force against the top of the brat's skull. Short Stop drops lifelessly to the ground. The leader (that would be Monkey Wrench) becomes enraged and cracks Shovel Thug across the jaw, shattering a few teeth along the way.

The crazy thug with the fresh nail wounds in his stomach lashes out his chain and wraps it around Monkey Wrench's neck. Knuckleduster slugs Chain Whip in the ribs to stop him from strangling Monkey Wrench, who is now catching the wrath from Shovel Thug...

Are you getting all of this? Good, try to keep up. Chain Whip turns and swings wildly at the bruiser who just punched him, but he hits Tire Iron instead. That was, apparently, a huge mistake.

Now Tire Iron enters the combat zone. I didn't notice it before but his weapon, a four headed spider wrench of sorts, has a coil on the side with a retractable chain attached to a ring on his hand. It's basically a custom-rigged garage flail that works on the same principles as a yo-yo. Except that it shatters bones. This is the kinda s**t that mechanics make in their spare time.

He twirls it in his palm, and then launches it at Chain Whip, snapping his leg and giving him an extra kneecap. Chain Whip's eyes roll back white. He howls out a string of very imaginative curse words in delirious agony.

Meanwhile, the queen is muttering emasculating things in the king's face. "Why'ya le'them fuckers run wild like that? Like'a buncha' goddamn dogs! Why'oncha be a man an'go beat tha s**t outuvem! Call yerself'a king...s**t, you ain'no goddamn king! I'ain vote fer you!"

He's trying to ignore her. It's not working.

"Why ya'gnorin' me!? Don'inore me! Why'oncha f****n' look a'me when I'm talkin'a you!? You'ont wanna hear whatta gotta say!? I'll say it anyway! I'll jus' talk louder! Can ya hear me now, ya sonuva b***h!? Yeah, I been drainkin', I'ont givah f**k! Hey! HEY!!! Yeah you, a*****e! Pay attention'a me!"

"SHUT THE F**K UP, WOMAN!!!" he finally shouts back at her.

"Oh you think yucan jus' tell me'ta shuttup? You cain't tell me whattah do! You ain't man'nough ta shut me up! Go'head, try it! I'm waitin'! No? Cain't do it? Yeah'ats what I thought, p***y!"

The king takes another drink.

Things are getting nasty in the arena. By now its a free-for-all clusterfuck. But damned if they don't know how to put on a hell of a show (sorry, everything I say is suddenly a bad pun now...it's irritating as hell d****t I did it again!).

"Yeah, so here's a thought," I say to the trucker, "we should probably be leaving about now."

The king offers, "You fellas want a beer?"

I trade glances with the trucker and say, "Alright...but just one."

*

Sixteen beers later the brawl is still raging. Hillbilly kung-fu deathmatch. This should be on Pay-Per-View. I wonder if they'll be eaten by lions next.

Booze and circuses. We got plastic chairs and free food. There's even a band playing. The king says, "I dig these guys. This is my cousin's band."

The queen says, "I fucked tha drummer!" We collectively ignore the remark.

I give 3-to-1 odds on Master-of-the-Flying-Tire-Iron to wipe the floor with the other five. Actually, make that four. Short Stop hasn't moved since that first crack with the shovel. I place a twenty dollar bet with the king.

Shovel Thug gets in a solid slash from behind and takes off Tire Iron's head in one clean swing. Ricky laughs as I cough up the loss. I hate it when I back the wrong horse.

By the next beer things start winding down. The queen finally passed out, but she talks in her sleep. So she still won't shut up.

Coal crushes his empty beer can and tosses it at the gladiators. They're all sprawled out along the floor at this point. The beer can bounces off Monkey Wrench's head. He doesn't react. He's lying still, facedown in blood.

The trucker squints at the pile of bodies and says, "Yeah, they ain't movin. Fight's over. Let's get the f**k outta here."

We bid King Ricky a fond farewell as we head out through the back exit leading up to the swamplands on the other side of the trailer park. He tells us to stop by tomorrow for a barbeque. We say we might. We won't. It was nice of him to invite us, though.

Out of the double-wide dungeon, back in the swamp. The trucker makes a survey of our surroundings. The ground is a putrid sheet of festering sludge. The twisted trees seem to be drowning in the muck. Serpentine roots look as if they're trying to crawl out of the ground in an attempt to escape. Everything is draped in dank layers of moss, lichen, and poison fungus.

The mosquitoes are the size of birds. Blood sucking needle-mouths big enough to give someone a spinal tap. Wingspan of a toy model helicopter. Giant fireflies hover in the air like Japanese paper lanterns, casting an eerie glow. I see a bright red slug the size of a python stuck to a rotting tree trunk. Its antennae eyes wander aimlessly.

The trucker is unfazed by our surroundings. He walks through snake pits without breaking his stride. "C'mon man, I know this great diner up ahead. Well...ok, it's kind of a s**t-hole, but the food is...well, the food's s****y too."

"Nice endorsement, Coal. You should've been a car salesman."

Reviews

[roarke]

I'd like to say," been there, done that." but I'd be lying. I think I did it with the queen also. Your opening description of the setting is classic. If I had to tweek this at all, I'd do something with the brawl section, it's a little distracting form what Coal and Jack are going to do next or from what their interaction with the king and queen were in the first place. But hey, it's hillbillies in hell.... what the heck am I talking about??!! lol