Eudy and Lenny bumped along in Eudy’s Hummer, down the muddy, rural path through farm country in Southern Georgia. They were intent on big game. Located in the lower Piedmont region of the state, the area was the site of a vast peanut farm which had been in the Eudy family for generations. It was 2 days before Thanksgiving and the morning air was a bracing 39 degrees. A brisk wind whistled through the towering sweetgum trees that were harvested for the manufacture of high end furniture. In less than 48 hours, Lenny thought, he would be breaking bread at Eudy’s family estate and giving thanks for a new Republican president and all that implied.
“We’ll get us some trophies today, Lenny,” promised Eudy, taking his eyes from the road for a moment. “It is what you call a target-rich environment, boy!” He took a long drink from an amber-hued flask and then passed it to Lenny.
Lenny grinned rather uncertainly. He’d always managed to elude these trips with Eudy up till now, but this time his boss had been adamant. According to Lenny’s fellow employees, Eudy held that you couldn’t take the measure of a man until you’d been with him on the hunt, out in the elements and all the rest. Lenny watched as they passed a forest of red maples, grown for transplant onto the large, palatial, plantation-like estates of the Georgian gentry. The scarlet leaves fluttered in the breeze.
Lenny spent 12 hours per day, in season, operating the huge, quarter million dollar peanut combine for Eudy, which proved that his boss trusted him. They often talked knowingly of fallow fields and LSKs and the like. He couldn’t fail him now, he thought. Since October, with the last harvest, things had slowed down on Eudy’s Farms, making time for excursions into the back woods.
“I think the truck looks damn good, Lenny,” Eudy said.
As well it should, thought the other man. Lenny had squandered a full weekend with his boss, applying the camouflage motif to the Hummer’s sides and roof. Spraying can after can of Rust-Oleum on the SUV’s carapace had been unnerving. Lenny read on the cans that the paint should be applied only in a well-ventilated area, but Eudy had been insistent on doing the job in the confines of his family’s capacious, 6-car garage. The reason for this, Lenny guessed, was that Eudy wanted to enjoy the high incidental to inhaling the toxic vapors. But, what could he do? Eudy was his boss.
The use of the stencils, the application of a base coat and the subsequent layering of coats was exhausting. The final application of a clear coat on top of it all had seemed to take forever, but at long last Eudy was satisfied. Lenny’s fingers were still sticky from the masking tape.
After what seemed like an endless trek, the men arrived at their destination, a small clearing abutting a medium-sized pond. The two men alighted from the vehicle. Eudy ran his hand loving down the tan, brown and muted yellow camouflage stenciling they had applied the previous weekend. Lenny gingerly felt his side; the jarring journey had played hell with his kidneys. Eudy seemed unaffected, however.
The men stretched their limbs and Lenny said, “I wish I’d bought more firepower, you know?”
Eudy shrugged, hefted his AR-15 and said smugly, “This’ll do me just fine, Lenny.” He took a sighting along the tree line of the distant forest.
Lenny frowned. “Sure,” he said, “you got your Franken-gun; all I got’s this piece of shit Winchester.”
The other man smirked. “You had your chance at the gun show on Saturday. You’re the one refused to lay down twelve large for a decent weapon.
Lenny winced. “Yeah, well, my daughter needs braces,” he pointed out.
“Priorities, Lenny,” scolded his friend. “You got to set your priorities.”
Lenny shrugged. Eudy had a point. “I guess you’re right.”
As the pair moved into the woods, Lenny raised his firearm and took aim at a flock of geese, but the other man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t waste your ammo, son. We got bigger game to hunt. Besides, the world needs more geese.” They walked on for another half mile.
“How do you know they’re in there?” Lenny inquired.
“I do my homework,” replied the other man. “Use scouts. And electronic surveillance. There’s a whole nest of ‘em about a mile into the reserve.” Taking point, he led the way.
As they proceeded through the trees, Lenny’s footfalls were magnified by the snapping of branches and twigs along the trail. Eudy, by far the more experienced tracker, was silent as a whisper.
Finally, the two outdoorsmen emerged into a clearing and came upon an encampment: tents, crackling fires, the savory aroma of grilling meat and open cans of beer were everywhere. About 20 men milled about, unaware of their presence.
Lenny whispered, “You sure this is it? Are you positive we got the right place?” he asked earnestly.
“Abso-damn-lutely,” said the other man in a boozy voice. “Pick a target, son.” And before he opened fire with his own weapon, he added, “You know the law of the jungle like I do, Lenny: first get ’em outta’ the libraries; then outta’ the government and the press and finally, at long last, it’s open season on poofs.”
Paul Tristram is a Welsh ‘Street’ Writer who has poems, short stories & flash fiction published in hundreds of different publications all around the world. He yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet.
His novel “Crazy Like Emotion”, shorter fiction collection “Kicking Back Drunk ‘Round The Candletree Graves” and full-length poetry collections “The Dark Side Of British Poetry: Book 1 of Urban, Cinematic, Degeneration” and “It Is Big And It Is Clever: Book 1 Of A Punk Rock Hostile Takeover” are available from Close To The Bone Publishing.
MY LIFE IN TORNADO ALLEY
--came screaming
through my home
upending it all
in an instant
and then
left
my tattered vacuum
behind, forever--
:the wind and the women
BENEFICE
At my baptism feast
I was immersed
adorned in gown and turban.
The host, swollen with yeast
and drunk with thirst,
cavorted like a merman.
I thrust my jolly priest
into your church
and delivered my sermon.
Hallelujah!
BIRTH-GROWTH-DEATH
We wear our trinity within:
Birth Growth Death.
We place our lots
between these dots:
Birth Growth Death.
Expand the beginning, then end.
Though by zeroes
we are enclosed
--Birth Growth Death--
we still contain infinities.
Birth Growth Death.
I, BIBLIOPHILE
One wife memorized Solomon
to reminisce our marriage.
And another remembered Spenser
in bequest to our sons.
And my mistress archived Milton
to remind me of my sin.
If only I’d had more lovers
I’d have read more libraries.
O FORMER LOVERS
What did you do n my life? Were you the butcher or the bride? My savior? A suicide?
O countess, accountant, or clown: the one who talked all my airplanes down?
Forgotten parents, let's make amends.
(Or is my asking a form of revenge?)
You wanted straighten, I wanted bend.
The times I broke out, where were you then?
hi ho rally ree, hi ho rally ree
hi ho hi ho hi ho rally ree
O life, you're a fife
that plays out of tune.I plug my ears shut
but still hear your song.
Hi ho hi ho rally ree
O former lovers can't we be friends?
So many starting lines only dead ends.
Snippets of love songs lost to the winds.
O former loved ones, why not be friends?
hi ho rally ree, hi ho rally ree
hi ho hi ho hi hom rally ree
Life is a wife
who's made out of tongue,
Who talks while I fuck—
just on on and on,,,
hi ho hi ho rally ree
O unborn bastards, shall we pretend?
Could we have saved some instead of just spend?
Why can't the onces becomee once agains?
Quit filling rivers with corpses and cans.
Hi ho hi ho hi ho rally ree
O — life is a knife
and it's nine feet long.
We're stuck in the gut
And then we are gone.
hi ho hi ho rally ree
In your life, what was I? Just one more endless hammer on the anvil of your nights?
Rusty dull umbilical scissors? Unspooled string to your puffed up kite?
