Hank held his head down in shame as they headed back to the porch. He lagged far behind Jared who was already telling Amy all about how he killed the coyote with a one in a million shot right through its eye. She had a disgusted look on her face when Hank got back to the porch. Despite that she smiled at Hank lovingly as he approached. Amy knew that Hank felt bad that Jared had shot the coyote, it was written all over his face.
They didn’t go inside as they usually would when Jared would stop by. This visit had an air of urgency to it. It seemed that all three of them just wanted it to be over. Amy broke what had become an uncomfortable silence by just bluntly cutting straight to the chase.
“We don’t have the clones. We can’t come up with the clones in time for this year’s season. Not soon enough to make it worth it. What can we do to make things right? We’d like to know,” Amy was calm and collected as she spoke.
“I will pass all of that along, as well as my recommendation that they give ya’ll another chance. You two ain’t from down here and they need to understand that. I know that you guys will keep your word, but I also know you got in over your head. But at the time there were no other options. I do think that I will be able to work all this out. After all, anything happens to you then they don’t get paid at all!” he broke into an authentic laughter, full of mirth. It made Hank and Amy both forget just how dire their situation was.
“And I got all sorts of goodies for you, lots of fun stuff,” Jared said. He had brought a small backpack up on the porch with him. He unzipped it and gave Hank and Amy both several bottles of pills. There were Oxycontin, Vicodin, Valium, Percaset, muscle relaxers and plenty more of Hank’s seizure medicine. He pulled out his prescription pad and wrote them both new prescriptions for everything he had just given them. Hank saw on one of his pill bottles that it said Dr. Jared Hickman. It only then occurred to Hank that he had never known Jared’s last name. He found that extremely odd. But even more odd than that was the fact that Jared was a Hickman. Hank tried to hide the surprise on his face. He knew he had a bad poker face, so he sat the pill bottle aside on the porch.
Everything which they had worked up in their minds to be so tense and stressful had suddenly become non-issues. It was such a relief to both of the Ramseys that they were both overwhelmed by a calmness and ease of mind that neither had known in what seemed like years. They had at least some sort of diplomatic channel with the Cornbread Mafia and they had all of their prescription pill needs met. Other than living in a nightmare house full of ghosts and demons things were going great for them.
Jared came by more often than usual over the next few months and had come with good word back from the Cornbread Mafia. They were willing to let Hank off the hook for that year’s season but expected the full ten thousand clones, for the next year, by late February so that they could have large enough plants to put out by late April. Everything which Hank had produced for them up to that point would be taken as the cost of his mistake. He felt that was more than fair and was just relieved to have all of his limbs, fingers and toes intact.
With such good news and little left in the way of his happiness Hank paid little attention to how many pills he was eating. He began to have severe withdrawal symptoms when he did not have his cocktail of various medications. Amy was much the same, drifting ever deeper into her own addiction. As they both fell into their own abyss they drifted apart emotionally, mentally and spiritually. Amy had returned to the mode of thinking that Hank was a burden and she deserved happiness in her life and that happiness was impossible with the burden of Hank in her life. Hank spent much of his time so wasted that he wasn’t altogether there any more. Between the toll the seizures were taking on his brain and the seizure medication itself he was in a near vegetative state half of the time. With all the other pills he was taking, even when he was capable of communicating with others, Hank was thoroughly stoned. He lived in a perpetual pilled out illusion. It didn’t seem to bother him much but Amy wanted more from life. To Hank being so high all the time was a reprieve from Larvamog, from the ghosts of the house, from the horrible death of Phyllis.
One day when Hank was upstairs tending to his crop of indoor cannabis he heard a familiar voice. At first he ignored it but it persisted until he had to acknowledge Quan was present. “Hank, you still want to work together? You still want to bring that damn thang down? Well, I’m here,” Quan said to ears which did not want to hear him.
It was the first time that Hank had heard one of the ghosts of the house and known who it was, although he still could not see the disembodied voice. Still he answered, “Yes.”
“Hank. That doctor has been having his way with your wife. I done seen it with my own eyes, dead as they are, but they still see better than most. He ain’t what he appear to be. Do not trust that man Hank,” Quan became a vapor in front of him, semi materializing in a glowing bluish mist. Slowly he became more dense in appearance but never stood solid before Hank, but something close and merely resembling matter.
“I know Quan, I’m not naive. I see what is going on. Really it is none of your business,” Hank got defensive with the spirit.
Quan darkened instantly, becoming something more akin to a shadow; a fell spirit of hate. He surged toward Hank, grabbing at his wrists as Hank stepped backwards, tripping over one of the hydroponic tables, knocking plants everywhere and spilling gallons of water all over the floor. As Hank was soaking in his hydro solution the ghost was upon him, in his face. It grabbed his right wrist and throat with fingers that burned with an icy chill and in an instant it flew through Hank, right into his chest. He felt his eyes roll back in his head as his chest grew colder than a witches tit in a brass brazier. He gasped for breath but it did not come, like the air had all been vacuumed out of the room. The icy chill spread all through his body. Then Hank became aware that he was not alone in his body any more.
Hank was now sitting in the back seat of his own experience and Quan was now the one driving. Hank could see the road, but he did not have his hands on the wheel. Quan forced them onto Hank’s feet and kicked over the rest of the hydro setup. He knocked over hundreds of plants, worth thousands of dollars, as Hank watched through his own eyes in horror. Every dollar he was going to make for the next four to six months was now dying on the floor of his grow room. Quan laughed through Hank’s mouth, a sinister cackle that sounded like he took much pleasure in ruining Hank’s life.
The clones for the Cornbread Mafia were in the other room…hopefully Quan wouldn’t go for them. But it was too late. As soon as Hank thought about them then Quan was heading for them. Again Hank watched in horror as several hundred cuttings were mercilessly murdered by Hank’s own hand. He began to cry, which was something that Quan could not stop. The tears flowed down Hank’s cheeks as he realized that he was set back a couple more months on his ability to provide the clones he owed. This time he might not be treated so well.
With everything gone, all his plants, all his clones, even the freshly cut ones that were just getting rooted, Hank was ruined. He saw no way out of the hole that he was now in and he began to panic.
He did not know when it was that Quan had left him, he just knew that he awoke on the floor of his grow room. As he looked around he was severely saddened, although not shocked, to see the mess all about him. He fearfully crept down the stairs wondering how it was that Amy and Jared had not heard him upstairs or the commotion that had occurred. He got to the bottom of the stairs and walked down the hall to the kitchen. What Hank saw as he peered through the kitchen doorway shocked him so much that he gasped.
Amy was on her knees on the other side of the kitchen, pleasing Jared with her mouth. As he moaned with ecstatic joy Jared met eyes with Hank just as Amy heard the gasp come in Hank’s surprised voice. She knew right then and there she was busted and in that moment she didn’t care. Hank staggered back, fell to the ground seizing hard at the same moment that Jared had his pleasure. Amy made sure that Jared was done with his orgasm before turning her
attention to Hank.
When they got over to the other side of the kitchen it became obvious that Hank was going through something unlike any seizure he had experienced before. He shook horribly, his arms stiffened so tightly that Amy thought they would snap their own bones. She rolled Hank over slightly and got his wallet out of his pocket and put it in his mouth so that he didn’t bite his tongue off. Hank’s eyes were dripping blood at the edges as he spasmed uncontrollably with an unnatural speed which neither Amy nor Jared had ever seen the likes of. Hank went stiff as a board from head to toe and began to float off of the ground. Amy struggled to hold him down but could not. As he reached nearly waist high Jared came over and lent his weight to the struggle, feeling awkward about helping Hank moments after what had just happened.
With Jared’s strength they were finally able to get Hank back down on the floor. He was unconscious so Jared helped Amy put him in their bed. They checked on him every hour or so to make sure he was alright. During the evening Amy recounted much of their supernatural experiences to Jared. Everything she could think of since they had moved in. Everything except for Hank’s encounter with Larvamog. She kept that secret to herself as she didn’t expect anyone to believe that part of the story. Even someone who had just seen a man floating three feet off of the ground. Ghosts were one thing. Giant, alien, vampire maggots from another dimension were quite another indeed.
14
The Fox and the Hound
Hank awoke the next morning to a note next to the bed explaining that Amy had gone to work for the day and wouldn’t be home until late that evening. As he dragged himself out of bed and into the kitchen for his first cup of coffee of the day there was a loud knock on the front door. Hank didn’t care who it was, he just yelled, “Come on in.”
He went about making his coffee, lit a cigarette, took a deep breath, sighed and then looked through the house to see who it was that was visiting him so early.
He was happy to see that it was Alan Fox in his living room, sitting on the couch and rolling up a joint. Hank’s happiness soon subsided into a look of consternation as he could feel palpable waves of anger coming off of Alan. Something he had never experienced. Alan licked the joint as he finished rolling it, but he did not bring his eyes to bear on Hank. There was a long dramatic pause before he spoke and Hank just stood there in the silence smoking his cigarette. He patted Boris on the head and cleared his throat in a passive aggressive way, trying to be assertive but failing miserably.
“Hank…you done fucked up. Buoy, you done fucked up bad. Now I heard what happened last night, from Jared. Now I know you wudn’t sure who it was you owed all ‘em clones to. Well I’m here to tell ya, it was me ’n my folk. We run shit down here in Marion County. Now we was expectin’ oh…ten thousand plants to put out this year and we only got two. That just won’t do,” Alan was deadly serious as he passed the joint to Hank.
Hank sat down and sighed deeply. He did not speak but inhaled off of the joint deeply, feeling that lifting euphoria that always came with Alan’s signature Kentucky outdoor weed. He tried to open his mouth to talk as he passed the joint back to Alan, but he coughed deeply and his face turned beet red. He felt like a newbie, las if he were some high school kid who was trying to impress an old school smoker and making himself look stupid.
“We own you now. Each plant was going to be worth at least two grand to us. That’s eight thousand clones times two thousand dollars each. That is sixteen million dollars Hank. You probly ain’t even dreamed of money like ‘at have ya? That’s a whole crew who don’t get paid this season. Let me reiterate buoy…we own you,” Alan spoke clearly for him, very calmly and matter-o-factly in a way Hank had never heard him use the English language before.
“What can I do to make this right? Anything…” Hank realized that he was almost crying. His voice creaked with his anxiety.
“Give me every damn dollar you got right now Hank. There’s people that’s got to eat and pay their bills,” Alan didn’t hesitate, but he did pass Hank the doobie while he spoke. Country folk had a way of keeping things cordial and using manners even when making threats of death. It struck Hank as something out of Gone with the Wind, very southern gentlemanly while being an absolute dick.
“I have thirty eight hundred bucks. I have another twelve hundred and fifty on the street. I know that ain’t much, but it’s all I have,” Hank was nearly sobbing as he wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. He tried to play it off as if he had gotten smoke in his eyes.
‘Ok. I’m goin’ ta take Boris with me. I’m fighting him tonight down at ol’ man Jenkins’s farm. Place a bet against Boris with every dollar you got buoy. If you can double ‘at measly five grand you got…well it would double yer chances of livin’ through the situation,” Alan laughed jovially as if they were watching a comedy movie, or fishing. As if they were doing something totally mundane and not considering Hank’s possible fate.
“Alan, I can’t do that. Boris is Amy’s dog, he’s her baby. Anything but that,” Hank begged with little dignity left in his voice.
He turned his back on Alan and walked into the kitchen, knowing it was probably a bad idea. He finally made his cup of coffee, his hand trembling as he struggled to put in the excessive cream and sugar that he was used to. With his coffee he took his first round of pills for the day. Painkillers, Valium, muscle relaxers, seizure meds. He took a handful of various colored little tablets. As he choked them down he heard Alan approaching, his footsteps reverberating through the house. The boots on hardwood floor sound made Hank think of the old spaghetti westerns his dad used to watch. When he turned to face Alan he saw that there was a pistol pointed at him.
“Nothin’ personal Hank, but I don’t give two fucks whose dog it is. I’m takin’ him. This is non-negotiable. I will bring what little is left of him back to you tonight, before Amy gets home from work. You will say coyotes got him. Got it?” Alan was stone cold.
Hank could only nod in agreement as he began to panic. Alan left, half of the joint he rolled still smoking away in the ashtray. He took Boris with him as he left. It was obvious that he had brought a dog leash with him just to lead the dog out. As Hank watched from the porch Alan loaded Boris up into his truck and soon they were gone. Hank fell to his knees crying. He knew what it would do to Amy. He knew what it was doing to his own self. Losing Boris was losing one third of the little family that they had built. He was the only pet they had left since Hank let his aquariums fall into chaos. When all of his fish died he swore off aquariums, which although designed and intended to relieve stress only compounded it. Boris was different. He had become much more than a family pet to Amy and he was one of the best dogs Hank had ever had as far as temperament and behavior. In that moment Hank felt more helpless that he ever had before in his life.
He called everyone that owed him money and was able to come up with four hundred more dollars. He had never been to a dog fight before and he didn’t want to go, but if it was going to save his life and/or the life of Amy then he would do it. Forty two hundred dollars, that was all he had to give those people. He wondered who else that he knew personally was involved with Alan and his mafia. “I should have known what they were going to do with ten thousand clones. Of course it was a crop worth tens of millions. What did I get us in the middle of? No, it was Amy that made this deal with them when I was in the hospital. Goddamn it!”
Around sunset he got a call from Alan to meet at old man Jenkins’s house. It was only a mile away from Hank’s own house and he knew right where it was. He didn’t have a car and Alan hung up the phone before he could ask for a ride and Hank was stuck walking. By the time he got there he saw that there were about thirty vehicles parked in the yard, which was essentially a field, just like his own yard. Hank walked past all of the cars and found his way to a barn which was full of noise and had flood lights illuminating it inside that were being run from a gas generator. As he walked into the barn he saw that most people were gathered around a makeshift fi
ghting pit and two dogs were tearing each other to pieces in a bloody mess. A man in a filthy truckers hat and overalls, with only one shoulder buckled, covering his massive belly cleared his throat loud enough for Hank to hear it over the dog fight. He was obviously the door man.
“We’ve been expecting you Hank. Place your bets over there,” he said in a voice stale and gravely as he motioned over to a corner where a man was sitting at a table with a bottle of whiskey in front of him. He looked like a farm hand and Hank could not say that he knew the man, which was odd since it was such a small community.
As he approached the table the bet taker poured a shot into a glass and lifted it up, offering it to Hank. Hank took it reluctantly and gulped it down fast, hoping that it didn’t have a negative reaction with any of his medications. “Sit,” The man said.
“I need to place a bet,” was all Hank could think of to say.
“Is that so?” the man chided him. “How much you got and what dog do you want to bet on?”
“I got forty two hundred. I want to bet everything I got on the dog that is fighting against Boris,” Hank tried not to cry.
“Oh, I see. It’s like that is it? Alright then. Forty two hundred on Zeus. And wouldn’t you know it, that is the next fight,” the man motioned to the ring where a dead dog was being cleaned up. Hank saw Boris, being held closely by Alan, enter the ring which was still covered in blood and gore.
Gravel Switch: the black goat chronicles book 1: a Weird Tale of Extreme Horror Page 12