Methed out skinheads from Missouri

pig hollow

the thin bald man sped the old v8 f150 down the gravel road kicking up dust as he went. The road was narrow and surrounded by thick maples pines black walnut oak trees and thick brush on all sides. There were no other cars or houses or people for miles and miles. There never were. When the thin man reached the highest point of the mountain road he pulled off to the side to piss. He liked the view from the top, especially around sunset when the sun started to dip below the mountaintops. He turned the ignition off then walked over to the side of the road where the brush met the forest. He unzipped his jeans leaned back and closed his eyes then began relieving himself. He felt guilt for a moment. Not for killing the two gamblers in the gas station. They were tweakers just like him but for shooting the boy. When he finished pissing he heard a rattling in the bushes nearby. About a foot from his boot was a Timber rattler. Coiled and angry and much more menacing and deadly than the copperhead that bit his hand when he was a boy causing him to lose the pinky and ring finger on his right hand. The snake was looking right at him getting ready to strike so he slipped a hand into his waist, slowly drew out the .45, aimed, then pumped four holes in the reptile till it stopped squirming.

He went over to the truck. Grabbed a burlap sack out the back, then went back over and bagged up the dead snake.

No witnesses, he thought. And the guilt was gone.

Just after sunset he drove the old truck through an open catttle gate, around a thicket of thorn trees, across a low water creek that was nearly dry, up an embankment with fallen trees on each side, and into a field with waist high grass.  The cabin was off in the distance barely visible in the moonlight nestled up against the mountainside.  He drove slowly through the field staying on an invisible path he'd known by heart cause he knew any slight deviation off that'd path would be certain death or at the very least a good maiming. He parked in front of the cabin and left the truck running with the headlights on then sat there silently watching a man from inside come out onto the deck holding a 12 gauge. The man looked a lot like himself except for darker skin, a black Mohawk, and broader shoulders.

The man came down the wooden stairs situated at the front of the cabin, walked over to the driver side window of the truck, and pointed the shotgun at the thin man.

Did you get the genny? He asked with the gun still raised.

I did. The thin man gestured with his head toward the back of the truck.

The man with the Mohawk lowered the weapon and looked in the back of the truck then back at the thin man and nodded. Good, he said. Now I can cook.

The thin man closed his eyes drew in a slow deep breath through his nose then let it out. That's what he wanted to hear. Now he can cook.

Was it messy or clean? The man with the Mohawk asked.

Messy

Did anyone see you?

No, the thin man said, .....just Rhonda.

Rhonda? That dumb bitch Rhonda Glassburner? The man with the Mohawk became agitated.

Yeah but she won't say nothi....Before the thin man could finish the other man struck him in the mouth with a closed fist. The thin man pulled out his gun and pointed it at the other man.

Do it motherfucker. The man with the Mohawk said. Do it. He leaned his forehead into the barrel. Dooooooo it! He screamed.

The thin man thought about doing it for a second. Matter of fact he wanted to. But he wanted the meth the other man was bout to cook much more.  The thin man lowered his gun.

Yeah that's what I fuggin thowwwt. The man with the Mohawk said. He walked around to the back of the truck and unloaded the generator, then came back to the thin man.

Go deal with that Rhonda bitch, he hissed. Or you ain't getting shit.

The thin man didn't say nothing. He didn't need to. He backed the truck up and drove out the same way he came in. And he went to deal with that Rhonda bitch.