Read Online The Rabbit Factory: A Novel by Larry Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Larry Brown
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down there in the daytime so that if one of them got out again he could see it coming in time to climb a tree.
He knew where there was a beer joint down on 315 in Panola County, so he turned off 6 onto it and cruised down that way. It wasn’t late. Not much past seven. He’d get a sixer and some pigskins and cruise around on some country roads for a while, dump those frozen guts somewhere, and still have plenty of time to get to town and hit a liquor store and grab a sandwich at Pizza Den, maybe a whole roast beef and gravy, and then check in. The lion meat would be okay overnight in the cooler on the reefer truck, since it was down to about five degrees in there right now. That shit was hard as a brickbat. After a couple of hours in there it was.
It was a few miles down the road to the beer joint. It was farming country. Fences and cows. People had pickups. He met quite a few.
He saw the store up ahead, the lights over the pumps. He pulled in and shut off the truck and went inside and got a cold six-pack of Schlitz tallboys and a bag of hot, barbecued skins and a few cigars, paid the guy, got back in the truck, popped a top, and went on up the road with a beer between his legs.
After a few more miles and a few more curves, he crossed a river under a bridge with steel arches over it. He could see the river in the dark, long and straight, lined with naked winter willows. Up ahead there was a curvy cut-through road that would eventually lead him back to Oxford and he put his blinker on, slowed down, and turned off. He breathed out a contented sigh. He liked being in the country and had gotten used to it down at Parchman. He for one appreciated the fact that once you got out of Memphis you could see trees and land and farms and shit like that. Sometimes even whitetails. He turned his head for just a moment to admire a wooden fence somebody was building around a pasture and then immediately smacked a pretty nice buck. BAPLOW! Somebody would’ve liked it mounted on their mantel. It had leaped from roadside green cedars squarely into the middle of the road at the moment he’d turned his head. The whitetail rebounded from the grill and went skidding and turning across the road, white belly hair flying, a sad ballet. He felt the lick in the steering wheel beneath his hands and his beer came out from between his legs and landed on the floorboard and spilled all over the seat, all over his legs, too. Next thing he knew he was sitting on the side of the road. The whitetail was kicking in the road, illuminated by the headlights. It was a strange one-horned whitetail. And he couldn’t believe his luck. Domino was simply overjoyed. A whole entire whitetail, and it was all his! All he had to do was get it back to Memphis. Boy oh boy. Whitetail country-fried steaks with milk gravy, whitetail tenderloin in a red-wine sauce, juicy whitetail roasts cooked slowly in a Crock-Pot with onion gravy and carrots and potatoes. If he just had a woman to share it with. To cook for. How cool would that be? Well. Maybe later. Save some money. Work hard. Stay out of trouble.
Domino put it in neutral and pulled the hand brake and got out slowly, shaking just a bit. Beer dripped out over the rocker panels. It was all over his legs. He picked up the can and pitched it across the road. His cigar had gone out and he felt a bit addled. It had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to do anything but hit the whitetail. He went around to the front of the truck. The hood and grill were dented in but he didn’t pay much attention to it because Mr. Hamburger had insurance. He was more interested in looking at the whitetail, which was still kicking. Just think how fresh.
“Get you some whitetail,” he said to the whitetail.
Now he was in a dilemma. How was he going to keep it overnight until he could make his deliveries and clean all the boxes out of the back, and then stick the whitetail back there? He could stick it up on top of the back end of
He knew where there was a beer joint down on 315 in Panola County, so he turned off 6 onto it and cruised down that way. It wasn’t late. Not much past seven. He’d get a sixer and some pigskins and cruise around on some country roads for a while, dump those frozen guts somewhere, and still have plenty of time to get to town and hit a liquor store and grab a sandwich at Pizza Den, maybe a whole roast beef and gravy, and then check in. The lion meat would be okay overnight in the cooler on the reefer truck, since it was down to about five degrees in there right now. That shit was hard as a brickbat. After a couple of hours in there it was.
It was a few miles down the road to the beer joint. It was farming country. Fences and cows. People had pickups. He met quite a few.
He saw the store up ahead, the lights over the pumps. He pulled in and shut off the truck and went inside and got a cold six-pack of Schlitz tallboys and a bag of hot, barbecued skins and a few cigars, paid the guy, got back in the truck, popped a top, and went on up the road with a beer between his legs.
After a few more miles and a few more curves, he crossed a river under a bridge with steel arches over it. He could see the river in the dark, long and straight, lined with naked winter willows. Up ahead there was a curvy cut-through road that would eventually lead him back to Oxford and he put his blinker on, slowed down, and turned off. He breathed out a contented sigh. He liked being in the country and had gotten used to it down at Parchman. He for one appreciated the fact that once you got out of Memphis you could see trees and land and farms and shit like that. Sometimes even whitetails. He turned his head for just a moment to admire a wooden fence somebody was building around a pasture and then immediately smacked a pretty nice buck. BAPLOW! Somebody would’ve liked it mounted on their mantel. It had leaped from roadside green cedars squarely into the middle of the road at the moment he’d turned his head. The whitetail rebounded from the grill and went skidding and turning across the road, white belly hair flying, a sad ballet. He felt the lick in the steering wheel beneath his hands and his beer came out from between his legs and landed on the floorboard and spilled all over the seat, all over his legs, too. Next thing he knew he was sitting on the side of the road. The whitetail was kicking in the road, illuminated by the headlights. It was a strange one-horned whitetail. And he couldn’t believe his luck. Domino was simply overjoyed. A whole entire whitetail, and it was all his! All he had to do was get it back to Memphis. Boy oh boy. Whitetail country-fried steaks with milk gravy, whitetail tenderloin in a red-wine sauce, juicy whitetail roasts cooked slowly in a Crock-Pot with onion gravy and carrots and potatoes. If he just had a woman to share it with. To cook for. How cool would that be? Well. Maybe later. Save some money. Work hard. Stay out of trouble.
Domino put it in neutral and pulled the hand brake and got out slowly, shaking just a bit. Beer dripped out over the rocker panels. It was all over his legs. He picked up the can and pitched it across the road. His cigar had gone out and he felt a bit addled. It had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to do anything but hit the whitetail. He went around to the front of the truck. The hood and grill were dented in but he didn’t pay much attention to it because Mr. Hamburger had insurance. He was more interested in looking at the whitetail, which was still kicking. Just think how fresh.
“Get you some whitetail,” he said to the whitetail.
Now he was in a dilemma. How was he going to keep it overnight until he could make his deliveries and clean all the boxes out of the back, and then stick the whitetail back there? He could stick it up on top of the back end of
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