The Backwoods

(I)

Think I’ll have me a jerk, Junior thought. His brother Ricky was out right now, took the truck over to Crick City to pick up some things at Wordon’s Hardware: muriatic acid (whatever that was, some kind of cleaner, he guessed), acetone, and some special kind of alcohol called “denatured.” Junior didn’t know shit about crystal meth, but the way Trey explained it, these were the things that rednecks used to make the stuff in their trailers. He already had a bag of matchbooks and several bottles of allergy medicine ready to go—all for appearance’ sake.

Junior had done the rough stuff last night, so tonight was Ricky’s turn, which was fair enough. This Felps fella was paying righteous bucks for the work, and it was fun—it got their dander up—and it sure as hell beat real work.

Yeah, he thought again. I need a jerk, all right. Still all hot ‘n’ bothered from last night. Get one off quick, before Ricky comes home. He rooted through their box of video porn, hunting for his favorite: Barnyard Babes #4, but then thought, Aw, shit, that’s right. The tape had broken a few weeks ago, so he’d ordered a new one. Fuckin’ post office is slower ‘n’ molasses. Shoulda got it by now. Such were the disappointments in Junior’s existence. He started to hunt through the box of tapes again but then realized, Hell, I can do without it, I guess, because he was indeed still a bit tingly with the image of Ethel Hild in his head. The old bitch was actually pretty good-lookin’—for an old bitch, at least—and Junior had had a good time putting the blocks to her, and then, when he thought about chopping her in half with the ax . . .

He felt his crotch, nodding in satisfaction. Who needs porn? I’m ready to go without it. Yes, Ethel Hild . . . She’d been something. For some reason, making that weirdo husband of hers watch as he’d dropped the ax made it that much more of a turn-on. Junior had especially liked the way her titties jiggled as he’d chopped, and then when she’d started crawling away. . . ?

The recollection enticed him further. But soon other images entered his head. Judy, he thought next. Not a bad-lookin’dish either, and those big tits? Junior wouldn’t mind doing a similar job on her, just tear the clothes right off her and get her really screaming. And then another image . . .

Patricia.

She was about the cream of the Agan’s Point crop: one hundred percent pure-grade fox. That silky, bright red hair? And the tits on her? Jeez . . . Junior was breaking out in a sweat just thinking about that one. Maybe get her ‘n’ Judy at the same time, have me a double stack.

Then chop them both in half when he was finished.

All these delicious images challenged Junior’s power of decision. Who to think about? It got downright maddening sometimes. . . .

He sat down on the couch, was about to pull his pants down and get to it, when—

There was a knock on the door.

Junior sputtered. Jesus, a man can’t even jerk off in peace around here! Grunting, he got back up, shifted his pants a little, then opened the door.

“Howdy, Junior. You got a package.”

The mailman, Charlie Meitz. He was a big guy with a shaved head, and a mustache that made him look sort of like Hitler.

Junior frowned. “Why didn’t ya just leave it in the mailbox?”

“Too big. Plus, I wanted to say hi.”

Shit. Charlie shook the box, offering a sly smile. “What’s this? A videotape?”

“Don’t you be shakin’ my mail around,” Junior complained. God, he hated interruptions.

Now the postman looked at the return address. “Hmm, T and T Video, California. Sounds like one a’ them porn companies—”

“Gimme that!” Junior barked. He snatched the box away and closed the door. Fuckin’ nosy pain in the ass . . . He peered out the side window, looked down the driveway of the crappy little house he and his brother shared, then muttered, “Aw, shit! Cain’t even beat off in my own house!” Just after the mail truck pulled away, Ricky pulled the pickup up into the driveway.

Fuck. Business would have to wait; Ricky’d be going out late tonight to do more of the job they’d both been hired for. He opened the box that the mailman had brought him and, sure enough, out slid a brand-new copy of Barnyard Babes #4.

Cain’t wait to watch this one again. It was a real hoot what some of those dirty chicks did.

He bellied over to the kitchen table and put the tape down. That nutty postman had also given him the rest of the regular mail, which Junior flipped through now. Buncha’shit, he thought. Here was one letter from the county supervisor of elections, urging him to register to vote. Fat chance. Phone bill, power bill, water and sewage bill. Least we got the money to pay, he thought. Felps paid well, and he and Ricky both were hoping the man would want more work.

There was one more letter in the pile, but . . . Don’t look like no bill, at least. It was addressed specifically to Junior, in scratchy handwritten scrawl.

There was no return address.