Bad Ol' Boys

2

The moon was so bright in the sky that it almost looked like daylight and the trees threw shadows across the ground. Mannington was largely silent except for the occasional car slinking down the road in the dark aiming at a job that functioned in the dark hours and raccoons that tottered like big furry cats through the roads and sought treats found in local garbage cans.

Through the dark slunk an old pickup truck down a dirt road so choked with trees it appeared to be traveling in a tunnel. The truck was dirty with rust chewing along the bottoms of the doors, and a headlight that burned yellow in one side. The truck stopped in the darkness and waited.

Ahead of it was a leaning old wooden fence that restrained weeds and overgrowth almost as tall as a man stood. Dried trees stood over the yard like angry parents yelling at children and the scraping of wood in the light breeze whispered in the night.

Towering over the yard, snuggled into the property as if going to sleep was a tall mansion, gray and weather worn, with three stories of dark windows that glared like ghosts onto the yard. The house reflected a past elegance fit for royalty and even though the fancy details had beaten ravaged by time, the house seemed to be trying to hold on to its past glory like an old woman bent and tired with age who still dressed in her youthful finery.

A light moved from window to window as the truck sat, waiting, and old Victorian boots walked down the upper hall of the house, past peeling wall cloth and yellowed lights, as the almost ghostly figure of an old woman walked from room to room. She stood for a moment and regarded the rooms, wispy with webs and layers of dust covering old furniture used by past occupants, and in one room shelves filled with old dolls from decades ago, still sitting, neatly arranged on shelves like family.

It was Vickie Timms, who had lived in the house for most of her life and to her the silent faces of the dolls were family and she talked to them like children.

She then moved down the hall to her bedroom and her aged, frail dress slid onto the end of the bed and her near skeletal frame covered with a nightgown that fell like an empty bed sheet on her.

The house was dark seconds later, and outside, the truck rocked gently, as AC DC blasted Shoot To Thrill from the speakers of the stereo and Harold Ivan Charles Kane sat next to his brother, Derrol Irving Charles Kane head banging in the seats as they played air guitar to the sound.

Derrol got out and unzipped his pants and Harold turned down the radio. “You fuckin’ dumbass, you want to let the whole fuckin world know we’re out here?”

Derrol stood for a moment. “Quit yer bitchin’ foo, you know that old bat can’t hear shit, hell she’s old enough to tell you stories about Noah and the Ark first hand. Let me piss in peace or I’ll spray it on the truck and make you wash it.”

“Bitch, shut up.” Harold replied.

Moments later the two put on ski masks and doubled toward the house. Harold chuckled. “I don’t know why we’re bein’ so fuckin’ sneaky, that old holler ween prop couldn’t fight a water bug she’s so fuckin’ old.”

“Cause Uncle Ed don’t want no problems, stupid.”

With a quick hit, Derrol smacked in a door window and they entered the house, doubling up to Vickie’s bedroom where the old woman lay asleep. Vickie did not wake, and so they shrugged and Harold said “If I was a stone age dingbat, where would I keep important papers?”

Derrol laughed. “Like what, the documents proving mom had a fling and made you?”

Harrold replied “bitch, we got a job to do, you gone do the job or try to practice for when the Dumbass Players put you on stage?”

The two walked through the living room and Harold spotted an old desk in a small room and paused, then he opened the drawers and found bills, letters, then a folder that said VITAL RECS and he opened it.

“Bull’s eye bro, and you said they didn’t teach me nothin’ in fifth grade.”

Derrol came over and looked at the paper and his eyes got wide in his ski mask. “Shit yeah, man, that’s the loan contract! Damn, that lightning bolt helped your head!”

They turned to leave and Vickie Timms stood in the doorway with an old revolver pointed at them.

“Do you two idiots think I’m so stupid that the cheap dollar store ski masks are going to hide your identities form me?” She demanded.

Derrol smirked. “I don’t give a shit, you old cow, ain’t nobody no place gone give two shits in hell what some old worn out bag of bones like you thinks.”

Harold and Derrol strode to the door and Vickie pulled the trigger, but the old gun just clicked. They stopped and Derrol let out a loud laugh. “Yer usin’ a fuckin’ black powder pistol, you dumb old bitch, the fuckin’ caps are probably spoiled…”

She fired again and the gun exploded, sending a ball through Harold’s right arm. “MUTHER FUCKER!!” He yelled, and as Vickie cocked the gun again Derrol shoved her down and pulled the gun away.

The two boys doubled out of the house as Harold wailed in pain and Vickie struggled to her feet and took the pistol after them. They got into the truck and Vickie aimed at the grille and the gun exploded again and sent a ball through the radiator which began to shoot a cloud of coolant. A fourth shot smashed the wind shield in front of Derrol yelled “Muther Fucker!” and jammed the truck into reverse and sped backward. He drove away from the house till his heat needle went to hot and he stopped. Getting out of the truck he flung his ski mask and yelled. DAMMIT THE HELL ANYHOW, FUCKIN’ DAMMMMMMMIT!”

Derrol used his shirt to bind the wound on Harold’s arm, then he drove in spurts through the night to get medical help.

Vickie Timms looked through her file and shook her head. “Figures.” She said.

As the sun filled the sky with color in the morning, Pastor Ed lay like a dead walrus in bed, his fat body taking up most of the bed. He woke to a knock on the door and without putting on clothes he walked to the living room and opened the door. Harold and Derrol stood and regarded his pudgy form with horror, then came into the house.

“Juh git it?” Ed asked.

“Yeppers, we got it! Didn’t take us no time, but that old bat woke up and she shot Harold in the arm.”

Ed glanced at Harold, who looked exhausted and had his right arm in a sling. “Shit.” He said.

As the boys sat and had drinks in the house, Ed looked at the document and smiled. He took out a lighter and burned it. He then looked at his copy, which featured a different date and laughed.

“Welp, it’s too bad the old gal couldn’t keep up the payments, guess she’ll just have to retire and we’ll have to find another use for the house.” He laughed out loud, and Harold sighed. “Ok uncle Ed you got what you wanted, now pay us so I can go get some fuckin’ rest.”

Ed laughed, then dug some cash out of a drawer and handed it to them. He added some to one stack and said “this is compensation for the injury. What did she do to you, anyhow?”

Derrol shook his head. “The old dingbat still keeps those old civil war guns loaded. She shot my truck smack where my face woulda been and if it woulda had the power to go through it woulda killed my ass.”

Ed laughed out loud. “Wow, good thing you kids aren’t regular thieves when an old lady pushing a hundred kicks your ass before you could have stolen her valuables.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The two boys chorused. Minutes later they walked outside to find a sheriff car waiting. They got in the back, and the sheriff, a fat, blondish man with a cowboy hat, drove away.

Harold and Derrol went home in the sheriff car and with a beer or two they retired to get some sleep. It would be party time when they woke up. Now they had some extra play money.

The two brothers were the nephews of Pastor Ed, and worked for Eric Gregg Oberman, the big fat local contractor who was greedy enough to turn your house into a strip mall while you sat in it without a second thought.

The two legendary hillbilly hicks lived in the luxurious, high class sprawling estate that was seven acres of ran down mobile homes that had been salvaged by a local company that refurbished them and sold them cheap. Wire fences, foil in windows, plywood patches with window units held in by finger smeared lines of white caulking made the place as homey as they could, interrupted by the clean and reasonably maintained double wide dwelled within by the Byches, Imma and her husband, a former military man known as Major Byche, who ran the first glance-driven background checks on all who entered the park.

The mail box displayed the name and routinely someone would knock on the door and say “delivery for the Bitches!” to find Imma angrily opening the door yelling “IT’S PRONOUNCED BYSH, NOT BITCH!”

Down the U shaped road that came and went through the place was the usual mobile home with an old couch in the yard by the fire pit, pickup truck in the yard, old fixer upper on blocks waiting for the tax return or other funds to make it run again, and occupied by the local bullies, Harold and Derrol who’s mismatched speakers and stereo acquired from the local dumpster blared country music on the weekends as alcohol fumes filled the air.

The boys were notorious bullies and got occasional visits from their other older relative, the local sheriff, Clyde William Randolph Dinkle, who’s response to the many charges of bullying on their part was “kids’ll be kids. They get arrested, steal stuff and get broads pregnant. So fuckin’ what?”

A regular to their house was Eric Oberman, a fat man with a ball cap who admired himself in the mirror as the heart and soul of manhood, who, unknown to the general population, kept files of naked men hidden in his work computer, all the while refusing to hire anyone he thought was gay because “we don’t need no faggits.”

Major Byche had short black hair that resembled a glob of paint on his head and while he appeared as polished as a rolls Royce in church, and eyed all newbies to the area with disdain till they met his standards, his brain was filled with memories of his military days where he had led troops in engagements and stopped for the occasional rape-pillage-and-plunder marathon, covering his tracks several times by sending his boys to burn a village and shoot all the occupants down to cover his tracks.

At one point one of his men was so angered by his barbarism that he pulled a gun and aimed it, very nearly killing Byche, but intervention by another soldier prevented him from ending the reign of terror.

Major Byche came home and showered it all off and became the papa daddy of the church, even mentoring single women in his white linen robes.

Imma Byche was similar to Pastor Ed in her demented submissiveness and belief she and her husband were above reproach.

Harold and Derrol had no use for church, since they did not need any saviors as long as the breweries kept running. They were not, however, above the occasional rape of local girls, particularly any who appeared without family.

Indeed, at one point in time, a young lass had fallen victim to their unrestrained lust and was carted out into the wilderness to be used as their play toy and she had gone to the law, and both boys avoided rape convictions because of the hard efforts of sheriff Clyde. When it was discovered that the girl was pregnant and had other proof of the deed, she found herself in the woods with Clyde towering over her and condemning him to hell before he put one aimed shot into her and she was put in a loamy grave where he was certain nature would destroy the evidence of his murder soon as he and the boys casually drank beer and laughed during that same hour.

Vickie Timms was waiting in her house expecting the sheriff car to pull up when it did and she stood in her doorway shook her head as Clyde handed her papers for eviction. She stared at him for a moment and said “I don’t understand.”

Clyde shrugged. “’cordin’ to Ed Lairre you took out a loan against this house and it came due and you fell behind, so that is his eviction papers and notice he is taking the house as your loan agreement said.”

“That’s not what I don’t understand.” She replied. “You and me both know, that is a lie. His two nephews broke in the other night and they took my copy of the contract. He destroyed mine so I could not use it and he altered the date on his so he could foreclose. You know he is a crook, as are you, and yet you thieving, conniving liars show up in that church every Sunday and he swaggers around like a bank building in the wind preaching his contrived sermons and claiming God picked him. How can you be a church man, and a liar and criminal at the same time? Is the God you worship blind and stupid?”

Clyde looked at her and said “You got thirteen days remaining.” He turned to leave.

“Just the response I expected, cowardly sheriff.” Vickie said.

Clyde drove away and Vickie said “You expect me to go quietly, don’t you?”

The sun dipped low in the sky and in a black velvet dress, Vickie Timms walked into the pink and red sun set and strolled among the tall willows on the edge of the property. The willows bent almost sadly as she walked into the jungle of hanging greenery and the trialing vines seemed to touch her gently as if petting her as she looked up into the willows.

“Can you hear me? If you hear me, know my enemies are near. They will take my home, they will destroy all I have for greed. Evil, corrupt men, monsters who worship money.”

Vickie held on to a willow as the sky became dark and she stood in a shadow of near blackness.

In the blackness, Vickie felt it’s presence and felt it surround her.

“Make them pay, hurt them as they have hurt others. Hear me. Will you?”

The tree swayed around her as if trying to embrace her and Vickie walked back toward the house with tears of hurt, anger and sadness streaming down her cheeks. She went into the house and looked at her dolls. At her feet yapped Twinkie, her little pup, it’s round head bobbing as it yipped at her. She held Twinkie tightly and walked down the dark hall.