Heck saw Possum Briney sitting in the shade of the depot, strumming his battered guitar. Possum was one of the few musicians that Heck truly wished had been given the chance to become famous.
It was a rotten shame that no one, save a few juke joint patrons and the locals within hearing distance, had ever had the pleasure of listening to Briney. He played masterfully.
But Possum had more important things than fame on his mind. There was always cheap liquor and fine women for men with Possum Briney's talent. Heck loitered nearby while Briney sat on his crate tearing the daylights out of 'Briney's Cocaine Baby Blues.'
Feelin' mighty low.
Mighty low 'n mighty down.
Cocaine tooks mah baby
Puts hah six feet undah groun'.
Grab me by da neck.
Tooks me by da hand.
Cocaine 'n mah baby,
Lef' me jes a broken man.
Doctah, gib me cocaine.
I needs it awful bad.
Doc say, 'Look at Baby!
Whut'sa mattah wid ya, man?'
Doctah, but I loves it.
Wild about it, too.
Loves 'at liddle kick,
'At liddle kick 'at cocaine do.
Feelin' might low.
Mighty lowdown blue.
Cain't git it from de doctah.
Whut is Briney gonna do?
Baby, she don' care.
She six foot undah ground.
Baby. she don' care.
Dey done let dis po' boy down.
Mmmmm. Mmmm.
Mmmmm. Mmmm. Mmmmm.
Briney's got de blues,
Dem Baby Cocaine blues.
Briney's got dem lowdown, rotten
Cocaine Baby blues.
"I swear, Briney," Heck said, "you get better ever' time I hear you. How's it hangin'?" Heck said, taking a cigarette from a pack and offering one to Briney.
"Like muscadines in the Carolines, suh. Heh. Heh. Ain' no surprise, Sher'f," Briney said, tipping his hat in thanks and taking a cigarette. "Briney like good meats 'n lard. Slides down real easy, don' ya know! Heh! Heh!"
YOU ARE READING
Five Miles to Paradise
Historical FictionEvil lives in the back woods and swamps of the Deep South. From the dark corner of a decadent plantation mansion to the soggy decay of a one-room swamp shack, it breeds and festers, grows and blooms. It lies in the recesses of small town ignorance a...
