by Chris Lowry
“That's what this song is about.”
“Man, I know that,” Carver scoffed.
“It's what almost all of them are about.”
Carver glared at him.
“I know country music,” he said.
Dawes took a sip of beer and wipe the non-existent mustache from his upper lip.
“I didn't say you didn't.”
Carver watched him still.
“You had that look though.”
“What look?”
“That look you get when you don't believe me.”
“I don't have that look.”
“I wish I had a mirror on your face right now.”
“Because I don't believe you about the look. If you say you know country music I believe you.”
“Man, I cannot believe this. It's cause I'm black right? You’re racially profiling me.”
“I'm not profiling you.”
“You can. I did you.”
“You did?”
Carver indicated the room
“Yeah man, your place, your people.”
“What kind of people is that?”
“Cowboys. Rednecks.”
“Excuse me Boy. Who you calling a redneck?”
They both turned as a new voice intruded on their conversation.
“Boy?” shouted Carver. “Who the fuck you calling boy? This ain’t Civil War times motherfucker.”
“Carver,” Dawes warned.
“I got this man,” Carver said as he rounded on the tall cowboy hat wearing man standing behind their table.
His wide eyes locked on the man’s blue irises as he stood up.
“Carver,” Dawes insisted.
“I said let me handle my business,” Carver made it all the way to the man’s chin, his eyes level with the bobbing Adam’s apple vibrating with a chuckle in front of him.
“You just opened a can of whoop ass, Boy,” the redneck giggled.
Carver glanced around then as the room grew quiet. He took in the giant in front of him, the other large boot wearing bullies standing to join him, lips thick with dip.
As one, they spit, the drips splattering the floor in a splash of tobacco stained color.
“Oh man, that’s disgusting,” said Carver.
He tried to back up, but the back of his legs hit the table and stalled him. The metal legs scratched on the wooden floors with an irritating squeal.
“I tried to warn you,” Dawes said from his chair.
Carver patted the giant redneck’s chest in front of him.
“Hey man, we was just playing, alright? Me and my friend here-”
“So now I’m your friend.”
“Yeah man, we’re friends, ain’t we. Look man, me and my friend, we wasn’t talking about you.”
“You calling me a liar?” he giant spit on the floor again, spittle splashing on Carver’s shoe.
Dawes stood up and pushed back his chair.
Carver sighed in relief.
“You really want to get in on this?” the redneck warned him.
“No sir,” said Dawes. “I don’t. But you shouldn’t have spit on the man’s shoes.”
“Boots,” Carver corrected.
“Boots.”
“What the hell do you care if I spit on this boy’s shoes?”
“Boots,” said Carver.
“Where I come from, you don’t spit on a man,” said Dawes.
He pushed back his hair and gave the man a sad look.
“You don’t where I’m from neither,” said Carver, newfound courage making his voice louder now that he wasn’t going to be beat to a pulp alone. “And you don’t call a brother a boy either!”
“Yeah?” the giant tilted his head like a curious dog. “What are you going to do about it?”
Dawes punted him in the nuts.
The man fell squealing, cupping the injury in one hand, gripping the edge of the table with the other. He pulled it over on top of him with a clatter.
“Anyone else!” Carver challenged.
The rest of the cowboy rednecks surged toward them.
“Too soon!” Dawes yelled.
Then the wave of bodies crashed on top of them, over them. Fists flew. Curses followed, with grunts, groans and a high pitched scream that brought shivers to grown men’s spines. After, some would swear there was biting.
A fistfight, much like a good lovemaking session, shouldn’t last more than three minutes. Carver was dragged from a pile of bodies, kicking, scratching and clawing, by a heavy headed bouncer that once was a professional wrestler.
The bouncer grabbed the thin man by the waist of his pants in one hand, the collar of his flight suit in the other and chucked him out of the front door.
Carver bounced in the stained pea gravel, tumbled once and sputtered to a bleeding stop next to a knobby tire on a jacked up 4 x 4.
Dawes made a grunting noise as he landed next to Carver, though he didn’t slide as far. The angle of his landing was higher so he arced straight into the ground instead of skipping across the top, like a rock on water.
“And stay out,” the bouncer warned.
Dawes rolled over onto his knees and crawled next to Carver. He settled next to him, back against the mud streaked tire as they tried to catch their breath, and nursed bloody noses, gashed lips and swelling eyes.
“Your people,” Carver sniffed.
“Ain’t mine,” Dawes answered.
“Damn,” Carver grunted.
He worked his way up the side of the tire and held on until his balance caught up with him.
“Guess we’re done here?”
Dawes took a wobbling climb up to balance next to him.
“Guess so,” he said. “You need any help?”
“Naw man, I don’t need your help.”
But Dawes knew he wouldn’t ask. He held out his arm anyway.
“Then you can help me.”
Together, they hobbled to the edge of the parking lot and stopped to stare into the dark fields that stretched all around them.
A faint moo echoed across the distance. Carver shivered.
“I ain’t scared though,” he defended before Dawes could say anything.
“I didn’t say it.”
“You was thinking it though.”
“No,” Dawes said as they limped out to the road. “I was thinking I was.”
A pair of headlights popped on in blinding brilliance.
“Hey man!” Carver yelled as a rusted bucket of junk masquerading as a pick up truck swerved across the road and almost sideswiped them.
“Are you drunk?!” Dawes screamed at the brakes as they flashed red and fishtailed in the loose gravel.
The truck slide to a stop and parked across three spaces on the last row. The door creaked open and spilled a cowboy onto the asphalt, who was indeed drunk.
He left the truck running as he fought to walk a straight line to the door and succeeded by degrees of fits and halting starts.
“He left his truck running,” said Carver.
“You want to go after him?”
“You know what my daddy always said?”
“I am not your father?”
“Don’t talk about my Daddy like that man. My daddy will kick your ass, his ass, all the asses. My daddy was an ass kicker, alright.”
“Alright, geez, don’t get so upset.”
Carver wiped the back of his hand across his eyes.
“I ain’t upset,” he sniffed. “It’s them cows, the stink, and the damn rednecks spitting on my boots. My daddy’s probably turning over in his grave.”
“What did you Daddy say?” Dawes mollified his partner.
“He said don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Carver started for the truck.
“They used to hang horse thieves around here,” said Dawes as he took a few tentative steps after.
“We ain’t stealing a horse, we’re just borrowing this truck,” Carver climbed in behind the wheel.
; Dawes slid into the passenger seat next to him.
“Besides,” Carver continued. “If you think about it, what we’re really doing is like a community service.”
“You don’t get community service for grand theft,” Dawes reminded him.
“No man, we’re doing this community a service by keeping a drunk off the road. He could kill somebody. Like a little family. Mom and Dad, two kids in the backseat. What we’re doing is saving their lives.”
“You think a jury’s going to buy that?”
Carver dropped the truck in gear and trundled out of the parking lot.
“You want them kids to die man? We don’t take this truck, it’s like we’re killing them ourselves. That what you want? You want to be a kid killer?”
Carver kept one hand on the wheel as they wheeled down the two lane highway cutting through the pastureland that surrounded them.
“I don’t want anyone to die. Especially me.”
“Yeah, well we saved them kids, didn’t we? I suspect I can save you too.”
CHAPTER
Dawes and Carver roll into a Neo-Nazi Rally.
"Hey man, there are a whole lot of white people round here. And they ain't looking at me right."
"I know what you mean brother. I am not getting a good vibe from this place."
"Then why you staying? Pedal on the right."
"They're blocking the road."
"Man, I knew I shouldn't have let you drive. Get out the way and let me do it."
"You want to step outside in this?"
Dawes reached over his shoulder and clicked the locks on the door.
Carver stared through the window at the growing number of people surrounding the old pick up truck.
"Naw man. No, you're right. Here, just push up and I'll slide under you."
"What?"
"Push your feet on the floor and lift up, I'll just scoot behind the wheel."
"I don't think so."
"What? You afraid of something?"
"There's not enough room."
"Man there is enough room. You're just afraid to have a black man that close to your backdoor. That's homophobic."
"You sure you want to look like we're a couple in front of them?"
Dawes nodded through the window.
"Man I don't give a shit what they think. Racist nazi assholes. I'm trying to get you out of my way so I can drive us out of here and you're being a dumb ass."
"I'm not a dumb ass. I just don't think there's enough room."
"There's plenty of room," Carver argued. "Lift your ass up, move from behind the wheel and get out the way."
Dawes shook his head, but he scooted over.
"I'm not scared of your junk spooning my backside," he drawled as he pushed up. "I just think this is a stupid idea."
"Then you should have let me drive," Carver slid under him.
Their feet got tangled on the floorboard, cowboy boots kicking against hicking boots and Dawes plopped into Carver's lap.
"This is comfy," Dawes smirked.
"Man get off me. Move."
The driver's side window shattered.
"You boys want a room."
Carver slid out from under Dawes but kept distance between the door and the pale white face that leered through the smashed glass.
"I'm getting pretty damn tired of people calling me boy."
"We don't want your kind around here!" the pale face screamed, spit flying onto the seat.
"Say it don't spray it," Carver snapped.
The man lunged and tried to punch him, missed and hit the steering wheel. The loud horn honk made others in the crowd jump and surge around the truck.
"We should have kept those lasers," said Dawes as he watched the faces press in against the passenger window.
"They've got a gun!" screamed the first attacker.
The crowd began beating against the doors, the hood, the noise a crescendo of pounding thumps, and angry yells.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," Carver said.
The driver's door was ripped open and people dragged him from the car. Dawes reached for his foot, but the crowd grabbed his arm and yanked him out of the truck too.
HIGH STEAKS
"Listen man, my grandmamma told me God is always watching. The least I can do is make it entertaining for him."
"I don't think it works like that," said Dawes.
"It don't? What you think?"
"I think we're supposed to be good."
"My Granddaddy always said if you can't be good, be good at it," Carver glanced up at the heavens. "Miss you GD."
Carver bowed his head and closed his eyes for a moment.
"What you doing?"
"Sending up a prayer."
"I didn't know you were religious."
"I'm not, but it doesn't hurt to believe in something bigger than yourself."
"That's nice man, real nice. And I appreciate you doing that for my Grandaddy. They was a whole lot wiser than us back in the day."
Dawes nodded as he got up. He held out a hand and helped Carver up off the ground.
"Yeah, seems like we know stuff about the whole big galaxy they don't, and it doesn't make us any better off, does it?"
"No," Carver sighed. "But you know what my Grandmamma also said?"
"Boy, quit tugging that thing and come out of the bathroom."
"Ha, yeah, man that ain't funny. My Grandmamma was a saint."
"What did she always say?"
"You know how to eat an elephant? One bite at at time."
"We didn't eat elephants where I grew up," said Dawes. "We ate cows though."
"Man, it's a metaphor. You got to know what I mean."
"I do. It means get to it.
"Yep."
They began walking up the dirt road toward the farm and the cow coalition that was going on even then.
"Still though, a steak does sound good right about now, don't it," said Caver.
"Yeah dude, I'm getting hungry too."
HIGH STEAKS insert
"What is that?!"
"Some people call it a gateway drug."
"Is that weed? Man, you holding out me?"
"I think it is."
"You think? Man, give me that. You don't even know."
"Are you an expert at weed?"
"What? Because I'm a black man I'm supposed to know all about weed? Is that what you're trying to say?"
"Are you?"
"Am I what?"
"An expert."
"Naw man, do you know what my grandmamma would do to me if she caught me doing pot?"
"Ask for some for her glaucoma?"
"I will kick your ass."
"Sorry."
"Don't talk about my grandmamma like that."
"Yeah, you're right, I'm sorry. Your grandmother is a saint."
"Damn right she is. She would probably beat me with a wooden spoon just for cursing like that."
"So how do you know about weed?"
"My cousin. He grew it in his greenhouse. Said it helped the tomatoes?"
"Did it?"
"Best damn tomatoes I ever had. With some bacon and lettuce and a little Miracle Whip."
"Gross."
"BLT?"
"Miracle Whip. You have to use mayonaise."
"Now who's gross."
"So pot tomatoes are good."
"You tried it?"
"Pot tomatoes? No."
"No man, weed. You sitting there calling me an expert, but you been holding out on me all this time."
"I just found it."
"That ain't an answer."
"I had a brownie once."
"Oh yeah? Pothead."
"No, it was just a brownie. But it was pretty good."
"Man, you stupid. Get that weed out of here and let's get down to business."
Bovine Bloodbath
High Steaks
Chris Lowry
The Herd have returned to earth and under direction of the Cow-ncil began
to reclaim the Great Plains. They wreak havoc on the framland and liberate cowherds from Iowa to join them.
Dawes and Carver are tasked with building an elite team of super soldiers to fight the alien incursion, but when the warriors forget to take the bovine threat seriously, the dumb duo is abandoned to their own devices, to survive or save the world.
"They're trying to sneak into the herds."
"The Herd?"
"Yeah, the alien cows. That Admiral is-"
"Admirabull."
"Whatever," snapped Carver.
"You have to call it by its correct name or it gets confusing."