Group Home for Anti-Socials

Mr. Clark came in to order a Savage Model 12 varmint rifle, but he stayed for the gun conversation. He said I was very impressive because I could properly explain the difference between the 5.56 and .223 rounds. He said, as he saw it, not many men could explain it, much less women. I told him that I impressed him by accident, and he laughed.

Two weeks later, he was back to ask about an internet transfer for a Ruger No. 1. He explained that he’d always wanted to own a Ruger No. 1, and a rifle chambered in .35 Whelen, and it had come to his attention that Ruger had released a limited edition No. 1 in .35 Whelen, the rifle of his dreams. After weeks of searching the internet, he’d found one for sale for the great price of $1200. I told him I could beat the price, and I did, by two hundred dollars.

When his rifle arrived, he was so happy that he shook my hand three times before he exited the store with his new toy. I told him to let me know if the rifle really fulfilled all his weapon needs.

He came back yesterday, his first appearance in two months. I had forgotten what he looked like, so I didn’t recognize him when he came to the counter, grinning ear to ear.

‘I’ve brought you a token of my high esteem,’ he said, and pulled an empty shell casing from his vest pocket. I flipped it over and saw the .35 Whelen stamp. ‘That’s the first round fired through the greatest rifle I’ve ever owned, and I want you to have it.’

Nana: Rebel always did have the prettiest mouth.

Random customer: With a smile that pretty I don’t see why you don’t smile all the time.

Mom: Stop being such a bitch before I slap your mouth.

Cousin: Shut your mouth before I shut it for you.

Man: SEX ON THE BEACH, BABY!

Rick came by to drop off his 20 gauge coach gun. One of the hammers wouldn’t cock, and he wanted Richard to fix it.

“Well,” I said, “it will be next week at the earliest, because this is Squirrel-thon week, so they’re all out in the woods drinking beer and shooting squirrels.”

Rick wanted to know when Chili-thon started, and I said I wasn’t sure, I’d never heard of Chili-thon.

“Well, it’s a lot of fun, just drinking beer and eating chili down in the river bottoms. Have you ever heard about the year Richard was in charge of stirring the chili?”

I hadn’t. Rick said that Chili-thon required A LOT of chili, so they cooked a 25 gallon batch over a wood fire. This particular year, Richard was in charge of stirring the chili pot with a big wooden paddle. He had driven his momma’s car to the river bottoms, and when he went to the cooler to get another cold beer, he realized that the brand new trolling motor that his momma intended to give his daddy for Christmas was in the back of the station wagon.

Richard, being the clever, lazy man he is, decided that the trolling motor might make his chili stirring job easier, and therefore give him more time for beer drinking and story telling. He pulled the trolling motor out of the box, clamped it to the side of the chili pot, started her up, and walked down to the river, pleased with his ingenuity.

Several beers later, someone hollered, “Hey Richard, there’s a whole lot of smoke coming off that trolling motor.” 

Richard ran to the chili pot, too late, the trolling motor was burnt up. He didn’t skip a beat, just unclamped the motor, took it to the river, washed it off, and put it back in it’s box. He never bothered to tell his momma what happened, just let her wrap the motor up and put it under the Christmas tree.

Christmas morning, Richard’s daddy opened his gift and told his wife what a fine job she’d done, that trolling motor was just what he’d been wanting, and he believed he’d go test it out after Christmas breakfast.

After his meal, he headed down to the river with his boat and trolling motor, set for adventure. Adventure was not meant to be, because, try as he might, that shiny new trolling motor would not crank.

A few days later, armed with his receipt, Richard’s daddy went to exchange his gift for one that worked. He waited around while the employees checked out his motor.

Finally, one came up front and asked, “What in the hell have you been doing with this motor?”

“Nothing,” said Richard’s daddy, “I just got it two days ago, and it was broken when I got it out of the box. Why? What’s wrong with it?”

“Well, first off,” the employee said, “the engine is all burnt up. Second off, it’s full of chili.”

It started when the rain stopped.

The plants turned brown, and the good red dirt turned powdery and pale.

I felt like every cigarette I smoked was the equivalent of napalm, just waiting for the opportunity to set the woods on fire.

People said it was just a matter of time before a stray spark from a tire, or a carelessly tossed cigarette burned us all to the ground. 

Then the burning started. The news said thousands of acres were on fire, with millions at risk. Volunteer fire departments worked around the clock, and citizens plowed the edges of fields in an effort to keep the fire from jumping.

When the fire was twelve miles from our house, my aunt rode in the back of a pickup truck loaded with food and drinks, delivering sustenance to the weary firefighters. One of her fellow volunteers threw a lit cigarette on the grassy shoulder of the highway. “I asked her if she just threw her lit cigarette in the grass, and she said, ‘Yeah, I wasn’t sure what to do with it.’ I tell you, these poor firemen may be fighting a losing battle with dumbasses like these wandering around.”

The air smelled like wet, smoldering wool, and it was hard to breathe. It was harder to see, and the highway I travel between work and home was closed due to low visibility and the possibility of fiery death. The visibility on my alternate route was not much better, every five feet was a surprise.

Rumors flew that a crazed arsonist was responsible, with some saying that it was a Mexican in a black Dodge pickup, others said it was teenagers. The news said someone had been seen throwing burning socks from their vehicle. 

The fire closest to my house was started by city boys that came to prepare their deer lease for the season, and left their car running in the tall, dry grass. The resulting fire sent a plume of smoke a mile into the air, and rained ash on cars thirty miles away. My dad stopped at a convenience store to buy a soda and see if the guy at the counter knew the exact location of the fire. The guy told dad that it was about a half mile down from that corner where all the pretty cows stood. Cow beauty is in the eye of the beholder, so we nervously waited for the Texas Forest Service to update their wildfire map, the wind to shift, or the Sheriff’s department to evacuate us.

We were lucky, and the fire ran away, not toward us.

When most of the fires had abated, they opened my route to work. We drove cautiously through the smoky haze, looking for landmarks that had fallen victim to the flames. We rounded a corner, and there was a man with a forklift, lifting the bloated corpse of a cow that had succumbed to the heavy smoke, the man’s face set with grim determination.

I said a little prayer for the untasted cow, and firefighters.

Brother Otis entered in his usual fashion, talking at high speed and walking in circles. He came to the counter and said, “Rebbie, I need a fresh piece of paper.” I handed him a spiral and a pen, and he wrote furiously for several minutes, set the pen down, told me I was a beautiful woman, and left. 

The note he left for me read, “MSST Otis Charles, Member of the North American Hunting Club.”

I wonder what he meant.

The old man told me that his nephew used ta have one of them Red Rider BB guns. He was usin it to shoot at the old man’s grandson, and the old man told him to quit. He didn’t, so the old man decided to bust it over his tractor disc to teach the boy a lesson. He reared back and swung it like a baseball bat, and it came back and smashed the old man in the face, but it did the job.

He said the boy fell out of a truck a few years later, busted his head on the concrete and died. He said he felt real bad about busting the BB gun after that.

Lady: LIAR!

Followed by silence

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Lady: She locked him out!

Man (angry): You better unlock that door! Unlock the door! You better unlock this door! UNLOCK THIS DOOR! If you don’t unlock this door, I’m gonna (low muttered threat that I could not hear).

Mr. Boring said he was in a hardware store over ta San Augustine county and he seen a young man with a face full of scars and a funny way of walking, like he could feel every step. When the young man left, Mr. Boring said to the owner of the hardware store, “It’s turrible to see a young man with nasty injuries such as those.”

“Oh, that’s a sad story for certain,” the owner said. “ That fellow was walkin down Highway 21 of a night, and along come a drunk coonass, hit him with his truck. The coonass didn’t even stop, just left him on the side of the road bleedin. Said he thought he hit a deer. Eventually, somebody seen the boy layin on the road, rushed him to the hospital cause he was short a leg. That drunk just keep on drivin till his truck overheated a few miles down the road from home. He seen a big hunk of meat stuck to his bumper, so he tossed it in the beer cooler, tended to his vehicle, and went to the house. When he got there, he wrapped his meat in butcher paper and threw it in the deep freeze.”

“What the shit,” said Mr. Boring. “Did he eat that boy’s leg?”

“Naw, but it took the po-lice a week to find him, so it was too late to put it back on. The boy survived, a little worse for wear, and the coonass won’t eat deer no more.”

Mysterious male neighbor no. 1 - “I’m tired of being treated like a motherf#ckin’ child!”

Mysterious female neighbor no. 1 - “I’m leavin’ with him! Where’s my gawddamned truck key?”

Mysterious female neighbor no. 2 - “HEY! Bring my dog back!”

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Mysterious male neighbor - “UHUH Motherf#cker!”

followed by ominous silence…..

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Drunk male neighbor -“How you like this bitch?” Followed by ear piercing air horn

Lady neighbor - “Stop honking that horn! It’s late!”

Drunk male neighbor - “I ain’t gonna!” Followed by more honking…

Little boy neighbor - “Daddy please stop it!”