A Couple Good Ole Boys Just Having Some Fun (in
the Woods)
She watched from
the shadows, having paced the two since she became aware of their presence in
the woods. Her mother had taught her to be warry of their kind. They were
strange, noisy like playful squirrels, darting about barking. The smell of
their foods was dizzying. She hid just
downwind of them in thick brush.
“You redneck,
trailer park whore fucker, we aren’t pitching the tent here!” Harlan shook his
head, and gave Warren a playful push. Warren, built like an offensive lineman,
stumbled backwards, tripping over their Roadie 20, containing a scoop of ice,
two six-packs of Budweiser and sandwiches. He landed on his ass. His full pack
cushioned his fall, but when it hit the ground, it snapped open, spilling a
cookpot, a can of Sterno, a flashlight, first aid kit, assorted sundries, and a
roll of TP that unwound as it rolled along the ground. The sleeping bag and pad were wedged in
holding everything else in place.
Sitting in a mix
of old and newly fallen leaves, Warren burst out laughing, “Trailer park whore
fucker? Bull fuckin’ shee-it, Harlan that’s funny.” Harlan joined in the
laughter, then reached down and helped Warren stand. Besides their laughter
there was only the rustling of the wind on this crisp November day deep in the
woods of central Alabama. It had been bow season since mid-October and Warren
carried his birthday-new Halon 5, his dream bow. His wife Jenny Lyn and the
kids had all grinned broadly as they presented it to him, wrapping paper barely
hiding what it was. He would have been pissed had he not sat the bow down
before Harlan’s push.
“You think that’s
funny? There’s more of that shit,” Harlan turned and farted, a loud wet one.
They laughed again. They were both closer to 40 than 30, too old for their
playful banter. When together and alone they quickly regressed 25 years. Their
vulgar word play went back to their youth. They’d played this game so long that
rarely did either of them come up with an original curse or taunt. There were
few things off the table: Just their kids, the Crimson Tide, their mothers, and
NASCAR. They were close friends.
Several years
before, they attended a Halloween party as Laurel and Hardy, Warren as Laurel
and Harlan as Hardy. Now, Harlan’s thinning sandy hair was hidden under a
Tractor Supply cap. His full jovial face sported a goatee. Thick lensed wire
rimmed glasses slipped down his nose. He was always a big boy, who ate too many
doughnuts and cheese burgers, and got too little exercise. Harlan carried his
pride and joy, his grandfather’s Winchester.
Warren had a
leaner face, short full beard, neatly trimmed and curly dark hair. Though they
were the same age, Warren appeared younger, until you inspected his medicine
cabinet and found the bottle of Grecian Formula. His curls were tamed under a
2012 Alabama National Championship cap. He had pinned a crimson “16”, to his
cap.
Harlan teased,
“You cheap fucker, just buy yourself a new cap.”
“Harlan, you’re
the mother fucker who shits in a trailer. And besides I haven’t fucked your fat
old lady in a week.”
Harlan looked
over at Warren, “So, the bitch got the clap from you.” They both eyed each
other for a moment and then laughed again.
The two wouldn’t really cheat on their respective spouses.
Harlan and Warren
were best friends since boyhood. They hunted these woods since before their BB
guns turned into 22’s. Birds, squirrels, anything that was furry or feathery
and moved was a target. Eventually they grew up and became responsible adults
holding down jobs, getting married and making babies. “And for your
information, it’s a modular home, you mothafucking retard, not a trailer,”
Harlan retorted.
“OK, your bitch
is the only slut I know living in a trailer.”
“Modular home,
asshole.”
“Whatthefuckever,
skunk prick eater. And calling me a retard is politically incorrect; it’s an
intellectual disability.”
“Damn, that’s
nasty,” Harlan snickered.
“An intellectual
disability?”
“No, sheit-face,
skunk prick eater.” They laughed again. Harlan set down his own backpack and
helped Warren repack. “Don’t leave your crap here. Bigfoot ain’t got no need of
Sterno.” Warren dropped the can into the pack and they were done.
“So, let’s make
camp here,” Warren argued. The woods opened, blackberry briars were below them,
and a thicket of underbrush 20 yards behind them. Here the ground was flat and
relatively clean. There were stones scattered about, easily enough to ring a
campfire.
“Better along the
fuckin’ ridge,” Harlan pointed up. The trees were thin as the last leaves had
fallen. Warren looked and mentally agreed it was a superior site. He wouldn’t
tell that to Harlan though.
“Bullshit. It’s
better here.” Warren stood walked the open forest floor pointing to where the
tents and fire would go, and then to the creek below. “And Lard-ass, it’s a
shorter walk to the water.”
Harlan shook his
head, pointed again up to the ridge line, “Higher ground is more defensible.”
“Defensible
against who? Environmental wackos with shitty Chinese Fitbit watches? Rabid
herds of horny rabbits? What’s wrong with you? That’s fuckinridiculous. You got
wine in your eyes?”
“Just the Wild
Irish Rose your skag gave me when I left last night,” Harlan chuckled, at his
joke. Jenny Lyn was no skag.
Warren pulled out
several sandwiches sealed in baggies from the Yeti, and then sat down on the
cooler. He peeked inside two baggies and tossed them to Harlan. They each took
large bites of their sandwiches, which were made of white bread, cheese and
ham. One oozed mayonnaise and the other, Grey Poupon. They talked about
football, their kids, work, and their wives.
“Is Jason playing
travel ball next year?” Warren asked.
“I don’t know. He
has some potential, not a bad pitcher, but he’s been growing so much, maybe
he’ll play football like his old man.”
“Yeah, you rode
the high school pine ogling the cheerleaders. What was her name?”
“Monica.”
“Yeah, Monica.
What happened to her?”
“She went off to
Auburn and then married a vet down in Mobile.”
“She had a set,
didn’t she?”
“No kidding.”
They took another bite of sandwich. “You forget Stallings recruited me.”
“Yeah, but you
rode the pine in college too, ogling the cheerleaders. What was her name?”
“Brenda, but she
was a majorette, not a cheerleader.”
“She was the whole
package.”
“No shit. She’s
got a huge ass now. You know she married Robert. Dang, can’t remember his last
name. They live up in Gadsden. She popped out kids like she was Catholic.” He
took another bite of sandwich. With his mouth full, “At least I wasn’t a pussy
like you. What were you, chess team captain?”
“Cross country,”
Warren answered. “Why make fun of Brenda. You like big butts, I cannot lie.”
“Yeah, yeah,
mesmerized by the sashaying. The bigger the better, and the tighter the
sweater.” They both laughed. A breeze
kicked up rustling through the woods in a new direction. They both had just a
bite of their first sandwich left. “How about your Julie? Her recital coming
up?” Harlan inquired.
“Yeah, she’s
doing great. Miss Katie says she could maybe get a primo part in the Nutcracker
next Christmas.”
“That’d be
sweet.” They each swallowed the last of the sandwich and then started another.
“You smell that?”
Warren asked, sniffing the air.
“Yeah, that nasty
fucking mayonnaise combining with your Aqua Velva?”
“It’s Duke’s
mayo, and I splashed on your Old Spice when I left your old lady sleeping off
multiple orgasms. But no, what I smell
reminds me of like someone with a bad case of BO, like your dog rolled in shit
and then died in it.”
Harlan sniffed,
“I just smell the woods. Maybe there is something dead up wind.”
Warren turned and
looked toward where she hid. “Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Dick Wad.”
“Do you really
think there’s a bigfoot out here?” Harlan asked, his sandwich near gone.
“Hell no. I think
we would have seen or smelled his fuckin’ ass by now.” Warren sniffed after he
said this. Each took another bite of sandwich. “We’ve been running these woods
for what, 20 years?”
“25,” Harlan
said. Warren stood, pulled out two Budweiser’s from the cooler and passed one
to Harlan. They popped the tops and took swallows. They were quiet for a
moment, enjoying their Buds, the fall weather, and the few remaining colors on
the trees. They had found no deer sign.
“Do you really
think they saw a Bigfoot down in Clarke County?” Harlan asked.
“You shittin’ me?
If you were a motherfuckin’ Bigfoot would you live down in Clarke County?”
“Hell no.”
“Me, neither.
It’s too close to fucking Mississippi. Bigfoots may be dumbasses but not stupid
enough to live that close to ass-fucking Mississippi.”
“What do you
mean? My people are from Mississippi,” Harlan countered.
“Good, then you
don’t have to worry about having Squatch blood!”
There was a
pause, “Fuck yeeew, Bigfoot!” Harlan picked up his rifle. “I’m coming for you!”
Harlan yelled and then fired his rifle into the sky. They laughed, finished
their beers, crushed the cans, putting the empties in each other’s backpacks.
Without debate they hiked up the ridge.
Harlan paused, “I
got to piss.” He hurried over toward the brush where she hid, unzipped, peed
and sniffed. Over his shoulder he called, “Warren, that smell is really strong
over here.” He was nearly peeing on her. Responding to his brazen action, she
rose, stood, and stepped out of the shadows, big, hairy, with two sagging
teats. She looked like Andre the Giant’s mother on extra doses of testosterone.
Besides her size, what over powered him was the stench. She smelled of someone
with a bad case of BO, who had rolled in shit like a dog, and then died a week
ago. Harlan screamed and Warren hearing the scream pissed in his favorite
fatigues.
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