Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

I stepped away from the door, then slowly untied my apron, taking a deep breath. “Let’s go!” Fat Ernst barked again. I pushed through the doors.

A deep, cracking belch erupted out of Junior, lasting nearly ten seconds. He grinned at me. “Get your waders on, Archie.”

Fat Ernst thumped a bottle of Old Grandad on the bar to get Junior’s attention. “You just see that the job gets done right.”

Junior grabbed for the bottle, but Fat Ernst wouldn’t let go, staring into Junior’s eyes. “And keep it quiet, you understand?”

“You bet.”

I spoke quickly. “I’ll get paid tomorrow, right?”

Fat Ernst turned his attention back to the television. “Tomorrow,” he said simply and released the bottle.

“Giddyup,” Bert said and started giggling.

CHAPTER 9

The Sawyer Hide and Tallow truck flew east down Highway 200 under a starless sky, heading for the foothills. Sickly twin cones of urine-colored light lit up the dark asphalt, but just barely. Not that anybody could see much out of the windshield. It was a regular bug graveyard out there.

I checked my watch. 11:23. I hoped Grandma wasn’t too pissed off. Fat Ernst hadn’t let me call her before the Sawyer brothers had dragged me out to their truck.

The silence made me uncomfortable. It meant that the Sawyers were thinking. I was afraid that Junior might bring up the crash this morning. So I asked suddenly, “How’d you guys end up picking up roadkill and dead farm animals for the county?” Anything to break the silence. “Sounds like a helluva job.”

“Hey, smartass, we provide a pretty goddamn valuable service here,” Junior said defensively, 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 thought.

“You goddamn got that right.” Bert giggled.

“Yeah, I heard Slim was so goddamn mad when he realized ol’ King Solomon’s balls was useless, he stomped out into the corral with his .30-.30, and blam! Shot that fucker right between the eyes. Then just let it rot, right there in the corral. And shit, if you thought he was pissed then, holy Jesus you shoulda seen his face when he found out me and Bert had stolen the skull and put it on the front of our truck. Now that, that was funny.” Junior and Bert both laughed.

“So, uh, what’s this job we’re doing tonight?” I asked.

Bert started to speak, but Junior cut him off. “We’re picking up something,” he said and left it at that.

“Gate’s coming up,” Bert said.

Junior started downshifting. I leaned forward, trying to see out of the windshield. I couldn’t see anything except miles and miles of dark, rolling foothills. “Where are we?” I asked as the truck rolled to a stop.

Bert kicked open his door and jumped out into the darkness. A moment later, I could see him in the headlights, holding a large pair of bolt cutters. Bert grabbed a chain that locked a small gate to the barbed wire fence.

“Back end of Slim’s place,” Junior said.

Bert wedged the top handle of the bolt cutters in his right armpit, between the cast and his chest. With his left hand, he grabbed the bottom handle and jerked it upward. The chain split easily. Bert pushed the aluminum gate into the field and Junior drove slowly through and stopped, switching off the headlights.

“We’re not gonna kill a cow, are we?” I asked.

“Nope,” Junior said flatly, taking another gulp of Old Grandad. “Just picking up one that’s already dead.”

CHAPTER 10

Bert stepped onto the running board on the passenger side and stuck his head through the window. Junior popped the clutch and the truck surged forward into the hills. Bert held out his good hand and Junior gave him the bottle.

“You see it yet?” Junior asked.

“Nope. Not yet. More to the left,” Bert said between sips. “Wait, slow down.”