Necro Files: Two Decades of Extreme Horror by Cheryl Mullenax (Ed) Page A
Authors: Cheryl Mullenax (Ed)
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we couldn’t have run that ole pig together no more. Course, you almost run over me. My chest hurts.”
Leonard checked the rear-view again. The White Tree boys were coming fast. “You complaining?” Leonard said.
“Nah,” Scott said, and turned to look through the back glass. He could see the dog swinging in short arcs and pieces of it going wide and far. “Hope you didn’t go off and forget your dog tied to the bumper.”
“Goddamn,” said Farto, “and him registered too.”
“This ain’t so funny,” Leonard said. “Them White Tree boys are gaining.”
“Well speed it up,” Scott said.
Leonard gnashed his teeth. “I could always get rid of some excess baggage, you know.”
“Throwing that windshield wiper out ain’t gonna help,” Scott said.
Leonard looked in his mirror and saw the grinning nigger in the back seat. Nothing worse than a comic coon. He didn’t even look grateful. Leonard had a sudden horrid vision of being overtaken by the White Tree boys. What if he were killed with the nigger? Getting killed was bad enough, but what if tomorrow they found him in a ditch with Farto and the nigger? Or maybe them White Tree boys would make him do something awful with the nigger before they killed them. Like making him suck the nigger’s dick or some such thing. Leonard held his foot all the way to the floor; as they passed the Dairy Queen he took a hard left and the car just made it and Rex swung out and slammed a light pole then popped back in line behind them.
The White Tree boys couldn’t make the corner in the station wagon and they didn’t even try. They screeched into a car lot down a piece, turned around and came back. By that time the tail lights of the Impala were moving away from them rapidly, looking like two inflamed hemorrhoids in a dark asshole.
“Take the next right coming up,” Scott said, “then you’ll see a little road off to the left. Kill your lights and take that.”
Leonard hated taking orders from Scott on the field, but this was worse. Insulting. Still, Scott called good plays on the field, and the habit of following instructions from the quarterback died hard. Leonard made the right and Rex made it with them after taking a dip in a water-filled bar ditch.
Leonard saw the little road and killed his lights and took it. It carried them down between several rows of large tin storage buildings, and Leonard pulled between two of them and drove down a little alley lined with more. He stopped the car and they waited and listened. After about five minutes, Farto said, “I think we skunked those father rapers.”
“Ain’t we a team?” Scott said.
In spite of himself, Leonard felt good. It was like when the nigger called a play that worked and they were all patting each other on the ass and not minding what color the other was because they were just creatures in football suits.
“Let’s have a drink,” Leonard said.
Farto got a paper cup off the floorboard for Scott and poured him up some warm Coke and whiskey. Last time they had gone to Longview, he had peed in that paper cup so they wouldn’t have to stop, but that had long since been poured out, and besides, it was for a nigger. He poured Leonard and himself drinks in their same cups.
Scott took a sip and said, “Shit, man, that tastes kind of rank.”
“Like piss,” Farto said.
Leonard held up his cup. “To the Mud Creek Wildcats and fuck them White Tree boys.”
“You fuck ’em,” Scott said. They touched their cups, and at that moment the car filled with light.
Cups upraised, the Three Musketeers turned blinking toward it. The light was coming from an open storage-building door and there was a fat man standing in the center of the glow like a bloated fly on a lemon wedge. Behind him was a big screen made of a sheet and there was some kind of movie playing on it. And though the light was bright and fading out the movie, Leonard, who was in the best position to see, got a look at it. What he
Leonard checked the rear-view again. The White Tree boys were coming fast. “You complaining?” Leonard said.
“Nah,” Scott said, and turned to look through the back glass. He could see the dog swinging in short arcs and pieces of it going wide and far. “Hope you didn’t go off and forget your dog tied to the bumper.”
“Goddamn,” said Farto, “and him registered too.”
“This ain’t so funny,” Leonard said. “Them White Tree boys are gaining.”
“Well speed it up,” Scott said.
Leonard gnashed his teeth. “I could always get rid of some excess baggage, you know.”
“Throwing that windshield wiper out ain’t gonna help,” Scott said.
Leonard looked in his mirror and saw the grinning nigger in the back seat. Nothing worse than a comic coon. He didn’t even look grateful. Leonard had a sudden horrid vision of being overtaken by the White Tree boys. What if he were killed with the nigger? Getting killed was bad enough, but what if tomorrow they found him in a ditch with Farto and the nigger? Or maybe them White Tree boys would make him do something awful with the nigger before they killed them. Like making him suck the nigger’s dick or some such thing. Leonard held his foot all the way to the floor; as they passed the Dairy Queen he took a hard left and the car just made it and Rex swung out and slammed a light pole then popped back in line behind them.
The White Tree boys couldn’t make the corner in the station wagon and they didn’t even try. They screeched into a car lot down a piece, turned around and came back. By that time the tail lights of the Impala were moving away from them rapidly, looking like two inflamed hemorrhoids in a dark asshole.
“Take the next right coming up,” Scott said, “then you’ll see a little road off to the left. Kill your lights and take that.”
Leonard hated taking orders from Scott on the field, but this was worse. Insulting. Still, Scott called good plays on the field, and the habit of following instructions from the quarterback died hard. Leonard made the right and Rex made it with them after taking a dip in a water-filled bar ditch.
Leonard saw the little road and killed his lights and took it. It carried them down between several rows of large tin storage buildings, and Leonard pulled between two of them and drove down a little alley lined with more. He stopped the car and they waited and listened. After about five minutes, Farto said, “I think we skunked those father rapers.”
“Ain’t we a team?” Scott said.
In spite of himself, Leonard felt good. It was like when the nigger called a play that worked and they were all patting each other on the ass and not minding what color the other was because they were just creatures in football suits.
“Let’s have a drink,” Leonard said.
Farto got a paper cup off the floorboard for Scott and poured him up some warm Coke and whiskey. Last time they had gone to Longview, he had peed in that paper cup so they wouldn’t have to stop, but that had long since been poured out, and besides, it was for a nigger. He poured Leonard and himself drinks in their same cups.
Scott took a sip and said, “Shit, man, that tastes kind of rank.”
“Like piss,” Farto said.
Leonard held up his cup. “To the Mud Creek Wildcats and fuck them White Tree boys.”
“You fuck ’em,” Scott said. They touched their cups, and at that moment the car filled with light.
Cups upraised, the Three Musketeers turned blinking toward it. The light was coming from an open storage-building door and there was a fat man standing in the center of the glow like a bloated fly on a lemon wedge. Behind him was a big screen made of a sheet and there was some kind of movie playing on it. And though the light was bright and fading out the movie, Leonard, who was in the best position to see, got a look at it. What he
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