Wednesday, September 3, 2014


The New Jersey Pines Barrens is a funny place. Some parts don't have any roads... Maybe a few deer paths, or still used, old Indian byways, but nothing a car could use. I guess them old spirits like it that way. Miles and miles of endless pines. They say forest rangers go in from time to time, but I don't know anything about that. 

Tonight it's dark. Big thick band a thunder boomers came through couple hours ago. Lightning like white hot, lethal Silly String. Air still got that ozone smell in it. Crickets still singin' 'bout it, the dumb bastids. They got shit for brains. Place has little clearings. The Pines, I mean. Maybe enough room for like a rough, little house or two... a chicken coop... some apple trees. All tumble down and homey like. Some clearings are just empty. They're stompin' grounds... dancin' places. Red Paint folks uses them. Red Paints is an old tribe. Not Indians. Folks what know skeletons say they come from 'cross the 'Lantic Ocean. Dried up skeletons say which ocean you crossed over. Not you, 'cause you still livin', but your people... your dead people.... all them 'generations.'

Red Paint folks ain't got much magic.... just strange ways. Right now, they catch a guy... not like they run after him and grab him. They just find him, put out like a present... duct tapped to a tree. Mafia fellas does that. Drive out from Philly. Stow the car on some little fire access road and tote the guy into the woods. Then they jus' truss him up, wearing nothing but that gray, shiny duct tape. Let him set his bare ass down in the mud, though. Pour pancake syrup all over him and go home. City all torn up now, but Mafia guys is always busy. They jus' never sit still. 

Pancake syrup brings in the critters... bitin' critters. They little, but they determined. Everything gotta eat, even mousy-ratty-buggy things. Trussed up guy screamin' when they find him. He beggin.' He cryin.' He go - Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!... but he not rescued. He jus' discovered. Red Paint folks not hungry. They already ate. But still wanna have fun. Everybody gotta have fun. 'Sides, they know he a bad fella, or Mafia dudes wouldn't a done him like they do. So that make it alright. Red Paint folks ain't no savages, you know. They jus' pin him down and commence slicin' him open with specially sharpened banjo picks. I think they banjo picks. Maybe guitar picks. I not sure. Kids make 'em to keep busy. That way they have like a little business... make some money. 

Picks peel that skin right off, jus' like cleanin' a possum. Guy stop screamin' 'cause they got all kind a shit stuffed in his mouth. But he tremble and his eyes go all crazy-like. That how you know he don't like it. After eyelids ripped off he REALLY look crazy. He REALLY don't like it.

That when they start the 'stompin.' Make like a circle. Do their dance... Stomp to the left. Stomp to the right. More like shuffle, actually. Eyes glaze over. Some guy play a little Hawaiian guitar. Keep it up til Mafia bastid look like pulled pork. 

What happen next, I do not know, 'cause that when Tomas come. Big, old timey hearse he locked in clatter to stop on little fire access road. Werewolves pullin' it starts howlin' and yelpin.' Red Paint folks shuffle out through trees to see the show. Not like they ain't got a show a they own, but you know how it is. Folks jus' gotta see. Always somethin.' 

Hearse doors fly open. Tomas jump out. He coughin'. He pantin.' He go - Edith! Edith! Where Edith!?..... Red Paint woman go - Shit.... 'Cause she know witchy woman don't like makin' pulled pork out a people. It like 'a thing' with her. So they real quick bury the guy and clean up. Werewolves jus' wander off, 'cause they conceited bastids.

Then Edith march through them trees like a big, ole virago queen sayin' - Who call my name!!?? Who call my name!!??

Tomas go - I did..... 

And she start cryin', 'cause she like him a lot.. Missed him real bad too...

<next time... Tomas and Edith make plans> 


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