Fringe Magazine - ShortShort Issue 16

SHORTSHORT:
Out by Munson Creek
by Chuck Taylor

"Give me my blowgun," Harry said.

Kyle handed him the blowgun from the floor on his side. It was dark and cool and we were on a county road sixty miles east of Dallas. The sky was autumn clear; a quarter moon hung low on the horizon.

"You can’t drink beer, drive, and shoot that blowgun," I said from the back seat.

"What are you going to shoot?" Kyle asked.

"I don’t know. Maybe you," said Harry.

"Fuck," said Kyle.

"Fuck you," said Harry.

"You got poison?" I asked.

"Sure," Harry said. "Just hand me the box. It’s under the seat."

"Shit," I said. "I’m too drunk." I found the plastic box. After a bit of a struggle I got the lid open and handed Harry a dart over his shoulder. Just at that moment we got to the bridge at Munson Creek and Harry handed me the blowgun.

"You load it," he said.

I took the blowgun and realized it was just PVC pipe. It had a rubber mouthpiece at one end. I put a dart in from the end, not sure what I was doing. "Where’d you get this?" I asked, "at Canton first Monday or a garage sale or something?"

"I ordered it out of the back of Soldier of Fortune," Harry said as we bumped over the open wooden bridge. "It’s better than a gun. Zip and they’re dead. No sound."

"Let’s stop and shoot something," Kyle said.

Harry pulled off to the side a little beyond the bridge.

"You gonna shoot some fish?" I joked.

"Hell no!"

"You can’t kill a turtle with that," I added.

"Turtle my eye," Harry said.

"We got to find something to kill," said Kyle.

"That’s what we’ll do," said Harry. "There’s always something around to kill."

We all got out of the car. I could see a few old refrigerators stuck out of Munson Creek where people had shoved them out of their pickups off the bridge.

"All you’ll find around here is cows," I said.

"Cows’ll do," Kyle added.

"Zip-a-dee-do-dah," said Harry. "My oh my what a wonderful night."

"Save ‘em the long ride to the slaughter house," said Kyle.

"Aren’t they milk cows out this way?" I said.

"You country boys know about hunting?" Harry queried.

"No," I said. "We’re small town boys. The only thing I know I got from listening to the good ol’ boys drinking coffee down at the Dairy Queen on Highway 80."

"Cows should be hunted," Kyle quipped.

"Yeah. It’s in their blood, and tonight we’re tribesmen."

"Uga-booga," I said.

"There’s a cow over there," Kyle said.

"Naw, you fuck, that’s a log," said Harry.

"I bet you can’t even hit that freaking log with that thing," said Kyle.

"What’ll you bet me?" said Harry.

"I’ll bet you the case I got in my trunk back at the house," I said.

"Naw, that’s stupid," said Harry.

"It’s dark as shit out here," said Kyle.

"You step in a cow pie?" I asked.

"What about shrooms?" Kyle said. "We could get us some shrooms right out of the cow pies."

"Naw," I said. "They put stuff in the feed. No shrooms anymore and no Kickapoo joy juice."

"Get over there," said Harry to me. "I’ll shoot you in the leg. You won’t hardly feel a thing—sorta like a flu shot."

"Do it," said Kyle.

"No way," I said. "You got poison on those darts."

"Did you bring the darts?" Harry asked.

"Kyle did," I said.

"Fuck that, man. You had them in the back seat."

"Fuck. I want to go to war," said Harry. "This is shit. Nothing to do but get drunk or do drugs. I want to go to war."

"I did Desert Storm, man," I said. "Let me tell you, you don’t want any of that crap."

"Fuck yeah, man. That’s why I joined the reserves," Kyle shot back. "I want to drink and defend my country. I’m ready to ship right now."

"My feet are covered with mud," I said. "The stars are cool out here, but let’s go back."

"Just let me shoot something," said Harry. "Then we can go."

End