Sheldon’s driving his truck down 79 towards his home. He takes a left after Clair’s, drives down a paved road for a bit, and turns onto a dirt road full of rocks and dry red earth. He thinks about Bill Boyer, has known him since high school. Big linebacker back then, married young, had a couple of kids (one’s in jail near Bergstrom for making meth), and eventually became a widower after his wife died from a malignant tumor. Was always a real asshole too: fucked anything that would spread eagle for him, ripped people off, fought anyone that looked at him funny. Now he’s scalping 9mm ammo. Doesn’t surprise Sheldon one bit.
It’s been a long time since Sheldon thought about a 9mm. Not since he got his baby. Named her Elvira. She was in in her plastic case, just sitting in the little space behind his seat and the back window of his truck with its NRA sticker. He loved to oil her up, stroke her shaft, feel her rumbling against his shoulder as he squeezed her trigger; loved to listen to her spit fire from her barrel like an angry cobra; loved to see other people’s reactions when he displayed her. You’d be surprised how many people have never seen an AK-47 in real life. It ain’t a thing of the movies – not in Sheldon’s America.
He shoots her three or four times a week, and since he lives in an old house he built himself on the edge of a big patch of oaks, he can fire her freely into his backyard. If he’s lucky, he’ll catch a critter rummaging around his property. Once, he got an armadillo in the ass and it jumped so high Michael Jordan would’ve been proud. A few weeks ago he caught a pair of rabbits humping. Killed them both with a single spray.
Now parked in his driveway with the door open, Sheldon can smell the rain coming. Smithville is about three hours away from the Gulf of Mexico and the place is humid as Hell Almighty. He’s got some wildflowers lining his driveway. Some Indian paintbrushes, a couple of dying blue bonnets and little white flowers that look like buttercups but aren’t quite buttercups. He didn’t plan for the red, white, and blue motif and if things keep going the way they’re going, well those colors just might change.
A new anthill has sprung up in the shade of a mangled Yaupon hedge he keeps trying to grow. Tree ants. You can tell where they live by following the line of leaves that lead to their pile. Little bastards can strip a tree in a single day, but they’re too stupid to hide the evidence. He’ll deal with them after he brings Elvira in the house. Can’t have his rifle sitting in the truck for too long.
The first place Sheldon heads to when he gets inside is his bathroom. The two beers he drank are racing through him. He usually just pisses outside, but he gets the urge to be civilized for once. He jiggles the toilet handle until it flushes, cleans the piss he got on the toilet seat with a piece of toilet paper and walks back into the living room.
The blinking red button on his answering machine calls out to him. He presses it: Hey Sheldon, Bill Boyer here. I thought you might be in the need for bullets ‘cause of the shortage and all. Well, I was lucky enough to pick up some just before the run on ammo. Listen, if you need something, you let me know. I’ll give you a fair price now, ain’t no sense in taking advantage of an old friend. Anyhow, give me a holler.
“Fair price my ass.” Sheldon peels off his shirt, stripping down to his wife-beater-stained-yellow from a year’s worth of beer sweat. He ought to call Bill back and say something. Ought to give him a piece of his mind. Been a long time coming. He flicks the little knob on the bottom of the air conditioner to the right. It clicks on and cold air starts to billow out of the vent above his television.
Tree ants. He needs to get those bastards before they strip another tree. Every year he battles bugs and critters and every year they get closer to winning than they did the year before. Nature is making a comeback; she’s angry about something but Sheldon doesn’t know what. Can’t be global warming; only a liberal would say something stupid like that. Could be God. Probably is God. God’s had enough of this cruel place and is ready to clean his palate. He won’t be sending Noah this time, that’s something Sheldon is sure of.
His shirt goes back on and he steps outside. The Texas air is heavy. It’s strange when you step from the a/c into the despotic humidity. He takes a moment, clutches his heart – that mysterious beating bastard that seems to keep ticking no matter how bad the place gets – and watches as George pulls up into his driveway.
“Had enough of Wyatt?” Sheldon calls out to him.
“Nope, just thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing,” George says. He slams the door of his truck and it pops open again. “Damn thing,” he says, putting his weight into it. “So, what’s up?”
“I’m fixing to take out an anthill.”
“Tree ants?”
“Yup, they’re back again. Just in time for spring to finish too.”
“Well, how were you planning on doing it?”
“I’m thinking about smoking them out.”
“Oh yeah?” George says. A wicked grin spreads across his face. “You got some gasoline?”
“Sure do, in the garage.”
“You’d better move your truck.”
Sheldon backs his truck out of the gravel driveway and parks it along the main dirt road next to George’s. Meanwhile, George is in his garage, unwinding a thick string Sheldon usually uses to tie off deer sausage. He meets Sheldon in front of the pile with the gas can and the makeshift wick. Both men are drenched in sweat by this point.
“Look at how big that pile is,” Sheldon says.
“Yeap,” George says. He wipes his nose on his red button-up and hocks a loogie.
“It must be a foot high.”
“Foot and a half.”
“Well, you know what to do,” Sheldon says. “We got to do it quick though, otherwise the little bastards will scatter.”
George plunges the nozzle into the anthill and begins filling it with gas. That sweet stench of gas tingles Sheldon’s nostrils as he unwinds the white string and readies it.
“How much?” George asks, looking up at him.
“That’ll do.”
George yanks the nozzle out. Like skydivers, ants attached to the nozzle plummet to the ground below. George twists the cap on and takes the gas canister back to Sheldon’s garage.
“All right.” Sheldon shoves the thick string in the hole and steps back. He runs out of string about fifteen feet away. George joins him and lights a cigarette. From the distance, Sheldon can see the gas fumes like a mirage sitting in the air above the anthill.
“You want to do the honors?” he asks.
“You go ahead.” George says.
Sheldon lights the end of the string and stands. He puts his fingers in his ears, watching as the string slowly starts to turn black. The blackness crawls until it reaches the anthill.
“Here she goes!” George turns his head away from the impending explosion.
Ka-BOOOOOM!
Dirt sprays into the air. A big cloud of dust fills the space above the anthill and the falling debris pelts the parched soil. Ants are toasted crispy and Sheldon is smiling big. Nice to see that type of destruction from time to time.
“Damn,” George says.
“All in a day’s work. You want a beer?” Sheldon asks.
“Yeap.”
***
They enter through the backdoor into Sheldon’s kitchen. Sheldon takes two Lonestar tall boys from his fridge and hands one to George.
“So, I got a message.” He goes over to his answering machine and presses play. The little red light blinks as Bill Boyer’s voice begins. The message finishes and George takes a long hard sip from his beer. An empty stare creeps across his chiseled face.
“Well?” Sheldon asks. He can feel the sweat pooling under his arms, and thinks about turning the a/c down even lower. Damn the heat.
“Frankly, I’m wondering if he’d charge you more than he charged me.” George takes his pack of cigarettes from the pocket on the front of his shirt. “You mind?”
“Not as long as you give me one. So you think he’d charge me less?�
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George lights his cigarette and looks down at the red embers. “He knows we’re friends, he knows you’d tell me.”
“But he might have spiked up the prices, especially if you looked desperate in that parking lot.”
“Hell no I didn’t look desperate.”
“Only one way to find out. Should I call him and see about them prices?” Sheldon asks as he lights his cigarette. He’s got a feeling he can get a better price. Bill always treated George like a bitch, ever since high school.
“Call him up.”
Sheldon picks up the phone and dials Bill’s number. It rings twice and Bill picks up.
“Hey Bill, how you doing? Me? Fine as always. Just taking care of the property. Always a battle out here with the critters and whatnot. But you know that. George?”
Sheldon looks at George. “Nope, haven’t seen him. He’s been MIA recently. I think he may be back to truck driving. Who knows? Anyways, I’m calling about that 9mm ammo. I just picked up a Ruger a few weeks back. Yup, it’s the LC9. Yup, it’s a little bigger than the .380. So, how much you selling ammo for? Thirty five for a hundred rounds?”
George slams his fist against the table. Sheldon holds his hand out. “Well, I’ll be over a little later then to pick up three hundred rounds. Yup, see you when I see you.”
Sheldon hangs up the phone, satisfied he’s proved his point. “You paid fifty, right?”
“Yeap.” George glares down at his beer. “That sonuvabitch!”
Sheldon sits down and ashes his cigarette. “I’ll tell you what I think we should do. I think we should go on over there together and demand a refund. Why’s he all the sudden lowering his prices? What’s he trying to pull? I say we go over there, and if things get ugly, well, then they get ugly.”
“You think things will get ugly?” George asks.
“Not if Elvira has anything to say about it. Let’s eat first though.”
***
Sheldon cooks up a can of baked beans with chunks of sausage and diced onions thrown in for good measure. He lets the beans simmer in the skillet until they are black on one end. He sautés the sausage with the onions in a separate skillet, adding a little garlic powder and a sprinkle of taco seasoning.
“Smelling real good.” George is sitting at the table looking at a Guns & Ammo magazine. He’s halfway through his second tall boy when the food comes. “Can’t never go wrong with beans,” he says.
“That’s for goddamn sure.”
“Say Sheldon, I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s your take on this whole whistleblower NSA thing?” George asks with a mouthful of beans. “You think the Government is really monitoring us? They was talking about it on the radio while I was on my way over here.”
“Us? Like you and me?” Sheldon thinks for a moment. He stabs a piece of sausage with his fork and looks it over. “Nah, they ain’t monitoring us per se. I mean, about the only thing I do on the internet is check my e-mail and look at new guns coming out.”
“What about that message board?”
“Targetpractice.com?”
“Yeap.”
“Well, I do that too.”
“So you ain’t nervous about this then?”
“Nope, ain’t nervous one bit and I will tell you why: I already saw this coming. The government has grown too big for its own britches and like anyone that gots too much power, they want to keep it. Maintain it. So they’re going to spy on people in the name of liberty. That’s why I’ve been stocking up, you know that. And when the time comes, I’ll be ready.”
“Yeap, when the time comes.”
“You’ll be ready too, George, and so will Wyatt and a bunch of other folks around here. Hell, Bill too. We might seem like a bunch of hicks – or whatever the rest of the world thinks of a real Texan – but we got our guns and our guns are going to make it harder for them to get us. That’s for goddamn sure.”
“What would you do if they came? You know, if they showed up here or something?”
“Let me ask you something, George. Did you ever look at the ways I built them windows in the living room?” Sheldon wipes excess beans away from his mustache with a napkin. He uses his tongue to lick the rest off.
“Nope, never looked.”
“Bullet proof glass. That’s why they look so funny. You ever noticed how thick they are? Hell, all the walls in this house are thicker than your normal wall.”
“Never noticed.”
“Also, my deer blinds.”
“You got one of them up in them trees, along the driveway,” George says. He’s a fast eater, and is almost done with his plate.
“Sure do. I also got a new one in back you haven’t seen before. The trees are thick enough out here. It’s a damn good place for a last resort.”
“So those are for some sort of government invasion?”
“No, they’re to hunt deer. However, if someone comes for me, you’ll know where to find me. Announce yourself before coming though,” Sheldon warns.
“What else you got?”
“You know when I replaced the septic tank a few years back when my granddaddy died?”
“Yeap.”
“I installed a bunker in the same spot where the old septic tank used to be. Been stocking her up ever since. I got ninety gallons of fresh water down there, couple of crank generators, a bunch of MREs, canned goods, iodine tablets – a whole slew of things. Maybe I’ll show you sometime.” He lowers his eyes down to his plate. It feels good to get the extent of his preparations off his chest.
“You never told me about all that.” George finishes his beer and squeezes the can.
“And you’d better not tell anyone else.”
“Secret’s safe with me. You know that.”
“Also,” Sheldon leans in closer, “I might or might not have picked up some C4 from the fella in Houston last year.”
“C4?” George asks. If he’s alarmed by Sheldon’s confession, his face doesn’t show it.
“Now that there is a last case scenario, but if they do come – there is going to be hell to pay. You know what though, enough of this talk for now, we need to figure out tonight. What’s our angle?” Sheldon asks.
“I say we just go up there together. Just walk right up to his front porch. Imagine the look on his face when he sees we are together. ‘Bill,’ I’ll tell him, ‘I figured I’d come along with Sheldon here to see about acquiring some ammunition.’ He’ll know right then and there that the game’s over.”
“I like it.” Sheldon scoops another spoonful of beans and onions and sausage into his mouth. He chews for a minute, swallows, and takes a gulp from his beer. That almost delicious almost nauseating taste of onion lingers on his molars. “I say I go up there first. I’ll park in that spot near his driveway where you can’t see from his porch.”
“Yeap, he did build that house at a strange angle.”
“Sure did. Anyhow, I’ll go greet him all cordial-like, pull Elvira out. We’ll go into his backyard and I’ll fire off a few rounds into the woods. You hear the first shot, and you come around back, just when he’s getting comfortable, and we’ll see about getting you a refund.”
“Sounds good,” George says, cracking open another beer.
***
They finish dinner, slam the last of the beers, and load into Sheldon’s truck. He packs Elvira in the back and both men smoke a cigarette as they cross over the highway, onto Cottletown Road. They begin the climb up the hill, past the Luther’s house, and a new home that’s bigger than both their homes combined. Clouds overhead have grown dark as coal and Sheldon guesses they have about an hour before it starts raining.
He hangs a left onto a dirt road, and falls into the tire grooves carved into the soil God knows how long ago. The road gets bumpy, and pebbles plink against the hot metal exterior of his truck. A grasshopper jumps onto his window and he uses the windshield wiper to flick it off.
He feels good, real good about what’s going to happen. He’s sick of people
taking advantage of his friends, of finer folks. Crying shame what’s happening to the country and to think who’s running the place only makes it worse. Add people trying to take advantage of others by selling them marked up ammunition prices and you got a recipe for disaster. Damn, if it hasn’t come to this.
Sheldon jutters up Bill’s driveway. He parks in the blind spot under the old oak tree and tells George to wait. “If you don’t hear bullets, come around back in about fifteen minutes,” he says.
Sheldon figures it shouldn’t take long to convince Bill he should show him his new AK.
***
“There he is!” Bill says. He burps and that sweetsick smell of liquor floats out the door. Drunker than two skunks. “Put her there buddy,” he says, shaking Sheldon’s hand. “Boy, I thought you was never coming. You getting a perm or something?”
“Just cooking some dinner. I told you I’d come later.”
“Like hell you did. You didn’t say shit about coming later,” Bill’s face is covered in white and black whiskers. His skin is yellow, and his nose is red and bulbous. Sheldon can’t remember if his nose always looked like that. “Say, what you got in that there case? Looks big.”
“Newest addition to my collection. Goes by the name Elvira. You might know her as AK-47.”
“You done got yourself a big boy gun there. Damn! Why are you buying 9mm ammo when you got that? Come on in!”
“I’ll tell you later,” Sheldon says, entering Bill’s house.
Bill’s house is no larger than Wyatt’s trailer a couple miles down the road. Just a shack really. The kitchen and the living room are awkwardly connected like a stitch on Frankenstein’s skull. Bill’s got this shit-eating grin on his face to mask the tragedy that is his life. Sheldon notes it, but business is business.
Dear NSA: A Collection of Politically Incorrect Short Stories Page 11