Velociworld

I Been Busy

And you know what? The hellish thing about fiction is the editing. Every time I think I'm on a streak, the Huck Finn kicks in. As in, you ain't going on any middle school reading listing writing that shit, hoss. Not that I'm going on one anyway. But no sense shooting oneself in the foot, eh what? I just cut the following:

Jack finally reached a highway, his sneakers and jeans dusty up to the knee, his backpack suffering worse from having been dragged the length of an entire soybean field out of sheer weariness. He sat on the side of the road and waited for a car. He figured he was pointed in the right direction. He’d consulted his map, and appeared to be on Georgia 17, which would take him to Millen. He’d figure it out from there. He noticed a battered, pistolshot sign across the highway. EGPYT, it read. After several cars had passed he finally thumbed down a pickup truck. Inside were two obese boys of about eighteen or nineteen. “Where you goin’, boy?” asked the driver.

“Millen,” said Jack. “Trying to get to Eatonton.” He looked more closely at the youths, and saw that they were filthy as well as fat. Both wore overalls, and had greasy hair, long for the area, slicked back behind their ears. Both wore pervasive scars of egregious acne, fresh as well as ancient. The boy on the passenger side grinned, showing hellish dental neglect. “We going to Scarboro, but we’ll run you the next fifteen miles to Millen if the price are right.” He grinned again, then jumped out of the passenger door. “Hop in,” he said. Jack hesitated for a moment, then remembered Bazemore, realized he probably had a Senator-led posse on his trail, and started to climb in the cabin, then paused.

“I really like to sit by the window,” he said. “I get car sick sometimes. Don’t want to throw up in your truck.”

“That’s okay,” said the passenger rider. “Lamar there is a great driver. Smooth and easy. Jump on in.” Jack hesitated, then complied. He needed a ride if he was going to elude whatever resources his father would throw at him.

Lamar pulled back onto the highway with a fishtailing spray of gravel, and the passenger guffawed loudly. “I’m Quentin Futch,” he said. “That there’s my brother Lamar.” Lamar grinned at him, and fishtailed the truck a bit. “Quentin’s a queer. You know what a queer is, boy?”

“I ain’t a queer!” yelled Quentin. “Lamar’s the one likes buttholes. Dontcha, boy?” He reached over Jack and punched Lamar in the shoulder, with his middle finger knuckle extended. “Frog!” he cried, and Lamar fishtailed the truck again. He glowered at Quentin. “I’ll get you for that, you damn queer.” Quentin laughed, and dangled his right arm out of the open window, beating his hand on the door panel in syncopation with the country music fading in and out on the radio. “Queers,” he mumbled to himself.

Jack was anxious sitting between the two brothers, and experienced waves of nausea as Lamar periodically fishtailed the truck for no apparent reason. After several miles Quentin reached over and slammed his hand on Jack’s knee, pinching it hard. “Corn!” he shouted, then released his grip. That hurt like hell, Jack thought, massaging his knee. I hope this crazy bastard doesn’t do that again. Quentin had obviously enjoyed it, however, for a mile down the road he grabbed Jack’s knee again. “Corn!” he cried, and laughed.

“Cut it out,” said Lamar, with a desultory fishtail. “You’ll scare him.” Jack figured Lamar was the older of the two, and hoped Quentin would obey. “What’s your name, boy?” Lamar asked. “Jackson,” he replied.

“Jackson?” Lamar said. “Like Andrew Jackson?”

“More like Stonewall Jackson,” he replied. “My dad’s a Civil War nut.”

“Alright, Stonewall,” Lamar replied. “You ever had cow meat?”

“You mean like steaks?”

“No!” Lamar shouted. “Like cow meat! You ain’t never had cow pussy?” Jack gave him a blank gaze, not sure if his leg was being pulled. “Quentin!” said Lamar. “Find me one.” They drove on for several miles, then Quentin said “There! Over yonder. By those trees.” Jack peered out the window and saw a cow in a pasture, grazing contentedly near a copse of trees. “Pull over.”

Lamar pulled the truck to the shoulder of the road, and killed the engine. He looked at the cow. “Black Angus,” he said, and winked at Jack. “That’s sweet meat there, Stonewall.” He climbed out of the truck, Quentin emerging simultaneously from the other door. “C’mon,” he said to Jack. “This is funnier than hell.” The boys hopped the pasture fence, and Jack reluctantly followed. When they were about thirty feet from the cow, who was now giving them a curious but unalarmed stare, Quentin put his hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Wait here,” he whis-pered. “Don’t wanna spook her.” Jack stood rock still, and watched as the boys eased up behind the cow. Lamar unhooked his overalls, and let the drop to his knees. Quentin laid down flat on his stomach behind the cow, and Lamar stood in the small of his back. He dropped his soiled, saggy briefs and placed one hand on the cow’s back while the other hand manipulated his penis into erection. When he was sufficiently aroused he eased his member into the cow, slowly. The cow gave an initial twitch, then stood still. Jack couldn’t believe the thing was stand-ing there letting this happen. Lamar pumped his flabby hips, both hands now on the cow’s rump. Quentin was grunting on the ground from the weight, obviously short of breath. “Are you gittin’ some?” he whispered hoarsely. “Are you gittin’ some, Lamar?” “Yeah,” said Lamar. “Yeah.”

Jack turned away. The sheer audacity of what the boys were doing had mesmerized him for a moment, but now he was sick to his stomach. He started walking back to the truck, when he heard Lamar give a savage grunt. He turned around in time to see Quentin roll over, toppling Lamar into a heap on top of him. The cow bolted a few feet in panic, and both boys started howling in fits of laughter. They stood up, brushing grass from themselves, as Lamar hitched up his overalls. They were still laughing as they joined Jack. Quentin slapped him hard on the back after they’d climbed the fence. “What’d you think, man? That cool shit or what?” Jack didn’t answer. He climbed back into the truck and sat very still. The boys both climbed in, and Lamar started the truck and eased back onto the road, this time without fishtailing.

They drove in silence for a while, occasionally interrupted by Quentin’s coarse barking laugh. “Cow meat! God damn! Ain’t that some shit!” he said be-tween laughs. “Lamar loves his ass some cow meat!” Jack was numb with shock, and not a small amount of fear. He sneaked a few sidelong glances at Lamar, but Lamar was very quiet, staring straight ahead with a vacant expression, his lips slightly parted. He didn’t fishtail the truck once the rest of the way to Scarboro.

When they arrived Lamar edged the vehicle into a parking space on the town square, and slumped a bit against the steering wheel. “Here’s where we go,” said Quentin. “Need some tools from the hardware store and some seed. You comin’ with us?” He looked intensely at Jack, with a lopsided leer on his face. “No,” said Jack. "I need to get to Eatonton.”

“Suit yourself,” said Quentin. “C’mon, Lamar. You need to go wash your dick.”

See what I mean? The sweet stuff ends up on the cutting room floor. And, yes, I know it's bad prose. But, by God, it's cowmeat prose. And that should count for something.

Posted by Velociman at June 7, 2007 9:10 PM | TrackBack