The Complete Drive-In

6

I got Crier’s legs and Bob got him by the shoulders and we lifted him out of the Plymouth’s trunk. He had swelled up a bit, and he really did stink.

We carried him over to the side of the road and put him down. I said, “I told him I wouldn’t do this. I promised I’d get him to the end of the highway.”

“Me too,” Bob said, “but a person doesn’t always get what they want, and you can’t always keep your promise. Besides, if he’d known he was gonna stink like this, maybe he wouldn’t have asked it of us.”

Crier’s dick had come out of his pocket and rolled up next to the spare, and since it was past the handling stage, and looked like a big jalapeno going to rot, Steve got a couple of sticks and scissored it out of there and carried it over and dropped it next to Crier.

“We ought to bury him,” I said.

“Something will just dig him up,” Steve said, “and this ground isn’t any kind of ground for digging. But if you want, there’s a worn-down spot over there and we can throw him off in that, maybe find something to cover him up, for all that amounts to.”

We carried Crier over to the worn-down spot and put him in it. He was stiff as a tire iron and lay there in the indentation as if he had fallen sideways out of a chair and frozen. Steve kicked the dick on over and into the hole and we got some brush and limbs and the few rocks we could find, and put them on top of him. We got everything covered but the bottom of his shoes. Our hands sure did smell bad.

We got in the car and drove away. Bob said, “I guess we could have at least put his dick in his pocket.”