Chapter 1

“I’m gonna need new springs on my truck if I keep running these roads at night,” Doober said to his dancing hula girl on the dashboard. Maybe everyone else saw a half-ton Korean rust bucket, but the engine was solid and there were no rips on the seats. He glanced over to double-check the two six packs of pisswater that he had volunteered to run out to the store up by the county road. He got smart this time, using his tool belt to wrap the cardboard boxes together and then weaving the seatbelt through his tool belt to strap them down.

Home for the moment was a cabin down by the bayou although cabin was a bit of a stretch for an aging shack that needed a new roof and windows. He had his own room and shared the place with his three best buds, which was a bit of heaven if he was willing to ignore the disaster in the kitchen. After a long day of work at a construction site, being able to kick back with a couple of friends and crack open a few beers with no one complaining about feet on the furniture was a joy – until it was his turn to buy the beer and he forgot to pick it up on the way home.

He hated that damned convenience store for charging him four dollars more for the same beer he could have picked up at Bargain Liquors in town. Those four dollars were like a slow burn that gnawed at the edges his enjoyment of the evening. “Bet ya I won’t forget again,” he told the hula girl with a shake of his finger.

Every time he drove the backroads to the cabin after dark, Doober believed that he had memorized every curve, dip, and pothole in the dirt roads. Whenever he hit another hole or had to slam on brakes to avoid disaster, he cursed to the high heavens that he had again, fooled himself. Only once had he not worn his seatbelt and he had smacked his head on the roof above his seat. At first, he was surprised that there was a thin layer of foam above the cloth covering but then his skull ached and his neck throbbed. Now he buckled deliberately before he started the truck, making damn sure that the lock clicked in place.

Something squawked outside his window and that reminded him why he forgot the beer in the first place. He had gone back and forth all day in his head whether to call Mary Sue and fake an apology. The boss made clear that carrying a cell phone on your person while onsite was grounds for immediate dismissal. He was forced to wait.

Mary Sue could suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. When that girl got a hold of his cock and balls, she was a non-stop vacuum cleaner. If he was moving too slow for her, she had a trick of creeping her finger up his crack to his asshole and then ... Damn. She could stand to lose forty pounds or so, but she was an outright sex machine. When she asked for a pounding, she meant a pounding.

Then again, she was a mean and spiteful drunk who squawked like a chicken being strangled. She had yelled some crap at him last night and he had yelled some crap back. When he bellowed over her hollering, she stood up from the lawn chair and stormed into her trailer, making the frame shake when she slammed the door. He heard her lock it too. He was pissed, but he was not going to bang on her door or kick it in – too much work. She was too much work.

The going back and forth in his head all day had not mattered one whit. She did not answer her phone when he called after work. She always had her phone on her, texting her girlfriends like a demented typist. He had wasted a perfectly good day worrying about what he would say. Her rejection was just another slow burn that he stewed over as he drove home, trying to make the correct turns on the crossroads.

He saw the three crooked trees up ahead and knew he was at the last left turn with the bayou on his right and the cabin down just a bit on the left. When he pulled up, he left the lights on and the motor running for a moment longer, hoping that the sound, light, and smell would warn off the critters in the dark. God, he hated snakes and he had no idea why the good Lord saw fit to place them in the creation. Even his momma’s preacher could not answer that one.

There was no grass out front, just packed dirt. Doober undid his rigged beer carrier, leaving his tool belt on the seat. With a six pack in each hand, he walked up the three steps to the porch and the screen door. The world was a bit more quiet than usual, and it sent a chill down his spine, like a gator was waiting just outside the pool of light.

He was not too worried about gators because they were a bit lazy about hunting their prey. The nature shows would talk in hushed tones how the gator would lay in wait with just its eyes and nostrils above the water. Horseshit. They slept until the last possible moment, snatched whatever was small enough to fit in their mouths and got too close, and then went back to sleep. Wait until your food comes to you, how much lazier can a creature be? Unless they were horny. They let everybody know when they were horny though and gave plenty of warning to stay the hell away.

Alligator tasted like crap too. If alligator tasted so good, then Food Stop would sell them in the case next to chicken burgers, turkey burgers and hamburgers. No one wants gator burgers, except some stupid tourists. Whatever, he pried open the screen door with his work boot and stepped inside.