pointing at the grimy glass and the highway beyond for emphasis. “Shit, if it weren’t for us, folks’d be up to their eyeballs in these dead things. You couldn’t hardly drive down the highway with all the dead animals. I mean, do you have any fucking idea how long it takes for a horse to rot?”
“Long time, I guess.”
“You goddamn got that right,” Bert agreed, sniffing his finger.
“It takes fucking forever, let me tell you,” Junior nearly shouted. “Did I mention the flies? You better be on that shit quick.”
I whistled low. “I didn’t realize picking up dead animals was so complicated.”
“You better believe it.”
“And these ranchers around here, they pay you to come pick up dead livestock?”
“Most of ’em. ‘Cept for that sonofabitch Slim Johnson.”
“What’s he do?”
“He just puts ’em in his dump, way out in back of his place so he don’t have to smell nothing. Lets ’em rot. Too goddamn cheap to even pay us, and we come goddamn cheap.”
“Oh. So, uh, why do you pick them up at all? I mean, what can you do with them? What do you do with the meat?”
“Hell, all kinds of things. Dog food, fertilizer, glue … Shit, all kinds of things.” Silence filled the cab for a few moments. Junior handed the bottle back to Bert.
I asked, “Hey, how’d you guys get that bull skull in the first place, anyways?” The skull itself was back on the front of the hood. The broken horn had been reattached with a combination of duct tape, bailing wire, and probably the same glue that held Junior’s pompadour in place.
“Now that, that is a funny fucking story,” Junior cried, slapping the steering wheel.
“You goddamn got that right,” Bert said.
“You wanna tell the story? Huh? Then shut your hole,” Junior barked.
Bert stuck his finger back in his ear.
Junior continued. “It happened like this. You remember that bull of Slim’s? You know, named it King Solomon, some kind of goddamn Bible name, but you know the bull, right?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Slim’s prize fucking bull stud. Cheap bastard made a fortune off of selling the semen. Sent it all over the country.” He reached across me and grabbed the bottle of whiskey out of Bert’s limp hand. The truck drifted across the yellow line down the center of the highway and swung back.
“This one night, Ma decided she wanted some fried chicken for dinner. She gave us some money and sent us off to Ketchum’s Feed and Grain. Well, hell, I figured we’d just save that money, get us a few tiddlies at Fat Ernst’s instead.” Junior jerked his head back and poured a generous amount of Old Grandad down his throat.
I wondered where we were going.
Junior swallowed and exhaled slowly, a foul, dark mist spewing from his lips. “I figured, what the hell? Slim’s got a shitload of chickens. And his stupid fat cow of a wife, she don’t know how many goddamn chickens she got. They’re everywhere. So me and Bert, we’re feeling downright tuned up, so’s I said to Bert, fuck it. Let’s go hunt us some chickens. I grabbed Mr. Eliminator, my bow, this badass big boy right here,” he said, jabbing his thumb with drunken importance at the black compound bow hanging in the back window. “So we snuck over to Slim’s, found the chickens out back, by the barn. I gotta tell ya, it was so goddamn easy I can’t believe we hadn’t been doing it all the time. Them chickens are downright stupid. I got two or three, and decided I needed one more. Make Ma happy. So I’m ready, got a razor-tipped arrow, locked and loaded, and goddamned if I didn’t miss that chicken.”
“Missed that chicken,” Bert agreed.
“But I nailed ol’ King Solomon right in those precious balls of his. Razors went right through those fuckers like shit through a goose. Funniest damn thing I ever seen. Holy Jesus. Shoulda seen that bull take off, jumpin’ and buckin’ around. I ‘bout pissed myself.”
Smells like you did
, I
“Long time, I guess.”
“You goddamn got that right,” Bert agreed, sniffing his finger.
“It takes fucking forever, let me tell you,” Junior nearly shouted. “Did I mention the flies? You better be on that shit quick.”
I whistled low. “I didn’t realize picking up dead animals was so complicated.”
“You better believe it.”
“And these ranchers around here, they pay you to come pick up dead livestock?”
“Most of ’em. ‘Cept for that sonofabitch Slim Johnson.”
“What’s he do?”
“He just puts ’em in his dump, way out in back of his place so he don’t have to smell nothing. Lets ’em rot. Too goddamn cheap to even pay us, and we come goddamn cheap.”
“Oh. So, uh, why do you pick them up at all? I mean, what can you do with them? What do you do with the meat?”
“Hell, all kinds of things. Dog food, fertilizer, glue … Shit, all kinds of things.” Silence filled the cab for a few moments. Junior handed the bottle back to Bert.
I asked, “Hey, how’d you guys get that bull skull in the first place, anyways?” The skull itself was back on the front of the hood. The broken horn had been reattached with a combination of duct tape, bailing wire, and probably the same glue that held Junior’s pompadour in place.
“Now that, that is a funny fucking story,” Junior cried, slapping the steering wheel.
“You goddamn got that right,” Bert said.
“You wanna tell the story? Huh? Then shut your hole,” Junior barked.
Bert stuck his finger back in his ear.
Junior continued. “It happened like this. You remember that bull of Slim’s? You know, named it King Solomon, some kind of goddamn Bible name, but you know the bull, right?”
I shrugged. “Yeah, I think so.”
“Slim’s prize fucking bull stud. Cheap bastard made a fortune off of selling the semen. Sent it all over the country.” He reached across me and grabbed the bottle of whiskey out of Bert’s limp hand. The truck drifted across the yellow line down the center of the highway and swung back.
“This one night, Ma decided she wanted some fried chicken for dinner. She gave us some money and sent us off to Ketchum’s Feed and Grain. Well, hell, I figured we’d just save that money, get us a few tiddlies at Fat Ernst’s instead.” Junior jerked his head back and poured a generous amount of Old Grandad down his throat.
I wondered where we were going.
Junior swallowed and exhaled slowly, a foul, dark mist spewing from his lips. “I figured, what the hell? Slim’s got a shitload of chickens. And his stupid fat cow of a wife, she don’t know how many goddamn chickens she got. They’re everywhere. So me and Bert, we’re feeling downright tuned up, so’s I said to Bert, fuck it. Let’s go hunt us some chickens. I grabbed Mr. Eliminator, my bow, this badass big boy right here,” he said, jabbing his thumb with drunken importance at the black compound bow hanging in the back window. “So we snuck over to Slim’s, found the chickens out back, by the barn. I gotta tell ya, it was so goddamn easy I can’t believe we hadn’t been doing it all the time. Them chickens are downright stupid. I got two or three, and decided I needed one more. Make Ma happy. So I’m ready, got a razor-tipped arrow, locked and loaded, and goddamned if I didn’t miss that chicken.”
“Missed that chicken,” Bert agreed.
“But I nailed ol’ King Solomon right in those precious balls of his. Razors went right through those fuckers like shit through a goose. Funniest damn thing I ever seen. Holy Jesus. Shoulda seen that bull take off, jumpin’ and buckin’ around. I ‘bout pissed myself.”
Smells like you did
, I
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