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Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Uncle's Tale of Rural Depravity

He slashed away it what he done. You want to hear it prettier? He struck me numberedly with the razor. For all I know, their names were Cletus and Jethro. I had pulled off for a bite to eat about 20 miles outside of Greensville, then havin' eaten my quality bacon burger, chili fries, M-T-Dew and a milkshake (I remember the good times)I thought I might round the respectability of the of the whole affair and get a haircut. I may have grown up on dirt floors, but I still have my priorities straight enough to keep my hair sheared so as not to look like one of the hippies or ladyboys what avoided the war of Vietnameese aggression. Hell, the sign said the haircuts only cost $5.  So I steps into the ramshackle, screen-door, fancy panties trailer. "Got more hair n' ya need?" asked  the bony peckerwood. "Yes, sir," says I, "just wantin to look decent while I still got money in my pocket." There was some fat piece of shit sitting on what some know as a couch in the parlor room or something, reading smut that would have turned a beatnik red. He gave a chuckle when he heard me use the powerful word "decent," but I didn't think nothing of it at the time. Nervous geeks, pinheads, and other mongoloids is prone to laughter my pastor  always said.  Well, the bony motherfucker says, "Now then, come on up and sit in the chair, papa, come'n now." Immediately I backwashed in my mind, trying to figure if I'd crossed the plain around here before, but I was in the clear so far as I could remember. Still, I knew things wasn't quite right when he pulled a trashbag over my head to keept hair out of my skin. "Never seen a trash bag used for that, Mister" I said. He didn'  say nothin' but "don't you worry, poppa, you'll be lookin decent alright you'll be lookin decent." Damned if he didn't whip out a pot but like what you boil beans in. He suds up the water n' pulls out a razor. And at this point, the lard-ass with the boobies, butts, and cooters magerzine is standing right behind me, grinnin-he's wearin' a ‘Stars and Bars’ T-Shirt I notice, which is respectable, but his arm pits were sweatin through the shirt and his odor were unattractive, but I digest. He's shaving me alright I guess the warm water and soap and the luxury that comes with it had me closing my eyes and relaxing. The next thing I knows,  the fatboy, with his two meat hocks fer arms has in a vice-grip like what the stocks feel like when you get vegetabled for siding with the loyalists. The bony Appalachian starts whoopin it up, "Time to clean you right up, shitbird, make sure an hold him tight, poppa"-this time he wasn't callin me "poppa" either. He starts slicin and dicin me real thin like he's some kind of slant-eye chef cutting up vegetables fer his watch. I seen my blood in the pot, mixed with the soapy water, but for whatever reason, I haven't reacted yet. That peckerwood took him a break for the slashin, liftend up a window, but not for air. Some big Rottenwhiner son of a bitch( as must be the case for science) sticks his head in the window ad is whining while licking blood and bits off of the flat of the blade! "Now, now, Poppa," said the fat one, too excited for for his words, "give-give 'em the finishing touch." So Elmer, or whatever that lanky bastards name is, pulls his razor away from the dog and pulls it across my cheek to my ear! They both start laughin so hard that I can finally out to  the door and back to the rig. I'm bleedin like a bunch of whores without a planted seed in em, but I still  go right to a pohlice station. I guess there's only so much they can do for there. I get some guaze, too many bandy-aids, and a whole bunch of ice like what was produced at the Chicago fair and I  apply some pressure.  I told the police to go nail them river bandit sumbitches. I suppose I could've compromised my principals and gone to one of them quack farms they call a "hospitable," but my manly good looks ain't goin to be less for a couple of scars, and neither is them scars the difference between me and a beauty queen. In fact, the only time my family ever had such honors is when Uncle Jimmy was doin a bid up the river, but again, I digest.  Forget about all that, I done told the sheriffs where that barber-shop was  is, and they really had the nerve to tell me, "No sir, no such address." Well, I can only think to say, "There is such an address, and I was jus there, asshole!" The situation never resolved itself to my satisfaction, so onward I rolled my stones.

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