Teaser
Here is an excerpt from my in-progress story Two Hundred Head Of Pig:
i. surveillance
Of course he sees them arrive. They won’t understand, but what they understand is based on ancient paradigms that no longer matter. He sees them arrive via a hundred cell phones and cheap digital cameras, flashed towards them in quick, subversive gestures: their own hard built surveillance state attitude turned against them as it must be turned.
He watches the various feeds, watches them troop from the planes. Ninja black, body armored. Faces hidden behind hoods and masks. They do not look human, as their heavy boots tromp in synchronized rhythm down landing ramps onto tarmac. No longer human, by their own conscious choice.
Pigs, the lot of them.
But only fifty. He is, for a brief moment, disappointed. Far from his goal. Far from the finish line.
But fifty is the most they’ve ever sent in one go.
Fifty, for the moment, will have to do.
Everybody’s world ends personally. That’s a truth that can’t be denied.
Some die in fire, some in the quiet leech of freezing cold. Some wracked in agony by poison. The lucky at the end of a long life, drifting away after a delicious dinner and many sweet goodbye kisses.
His died as he hunkered like a coward in a hiding hole, accompanied by a symphony of enraged dogs.
His ended with the sight of a two year old screaming, frantically rocking a baby doll in her arms. A baby doll with melted hair and a deformed head. Rocking, rocking. Seeking comfort by trying desperately to give it. Seeking comfort in a world falling apart before her eyes.
When he thinks back, when he dreams of that moment (as he does nearly every night) he realizes that this vendetta has more to do with that horrible moment in the short life of his baby cousin than the deaths of his uncles. He lies when he claims otherwise. He lies to himself, most of the time.
Every shot fired, every trap sprung, every skull collected. Urged on by that single image — by that unholy justice demanded for a child who cannot articulate the desire for justice.
Justice that demands two hundred head of pig.
ii. in brief
“What is this son of a bitch’s name?” Agent Dangeld asks his new assistant.
She’s a quick, polite sort. “James Franklin Farmer, sir.” she says in her crisp, perfectly modulated voice. She passes a depressingly thin dossier to him. “No real criminal record. No real records of any sort.”
The agent pretends to glance through the file, catching glimpses of Ms. Amanda Tate as he does so, assessing her, letting the voices argue.
He’s not schizophrenic — a dozen doctors have assured him of that. The voices — which have been with him for as long as he can remember — make no pretense of control or play none of the noted power games amongst themselves.
“Ugly but nice bod.” says Rickie, the perpetual teenager. “Consolation prize.”
Hiram sniffs. “First in class at UofM, Top 10 percent at Arlington. Her looks are the last thing we need to worry about.”
“A wild card.” mutters Rook, ever paranoid. “And too young to really judge.”
Dangeld drops the file on the desk in front of him. Amanda Tate stares at him attentively.
“Why the lack of records? Child of hermits?”
A half smile. Dangeld reflects that Rickie is right. She’s not a pretty woman. That smile is far from seductive.
“Not quite, sir. Just a hillbilly. Born and raised in these mountains.” She grabs the file and pages through it, using it as a reminder. “High school dropout. No college. Busted once for possession of marijuana.”
“No different than half the hicks in this hole in the world, then.” Dangeld snorts.
“Exactly.”
“Why then?”
Tate settles back, cocking her head in thought. “Local consensus is revenge.”
“Revenge?”
Tate returns to her file. “Last year — 6 months and three days ago to be precise — A heavy DEA/BATF CoOp Unit performed a routine raid on the property of Paul and Elmer Farmer.”
“Relation?”
“Uncles, sir.”
“Reason?”
“Propagation.” Tate returns. “Dead to rights with almost two hundred mature plants. Real connoisseur strains according to the final reports. Extremely potent NoCal/BC boutique hybrids. 450 dollar an ounce stuff, even in these boondocks.”
Dangeld sighs and rubs his forehead. He can almost guess the rest of this story.
“The Farmer’s were well known to be firearms freaks and pretty damned hard core anti-gov types. The CoOp Unit went in hard and heavy.”
“Results?”
Tate shrugs. “Five dead agents from a 20 man unit. The Farmer Brothers had armor piercing ammo and both the steel and the will to use it. Both men killed. Their house was burned. The crop that wasn’t destroyed was seized.”
Dangeld shook his head. When he started this job a story like that would have made the rounds to every agent in every agency as soon as it happened. These days, it was so common that it barely registered on the grapevine.
Tate wasn’t finished. “The Joint Unit didn’t know that Paul Farmer’s daughter and grandchild were visiting from Georgia.”
“Jesus.”
“Neither were killed, but both spent time in hospital. Both have developed some deep seated psychological problems as well.” Tate had a nasty smirk, and she showed it off. “Though it wouldn’t surprise me if that was mainly an attempt to snag a government check and a lifetime script for Xanax.”
Dangeld ignored that.
“So their nephew decides it’s up to him to get revenge.”
“Until we received his…pleasant little manifesto…he was actually thought to have been either killed in the raid or fled the state when informed of it. He was a known accomplice — dealer and errand runner — for his uncles.”
Dangeld picked the single sheet of paper from his desk, the message that had started this whole mess. The message that had sent him to this civilization forsaken sprawl of hills and impassable roads, as head of a Homeland Security CoOp unit of fifty troops. A contingent of the best DEA/BATF/FBI anti-terrorism forces available:
ATTENTION —
THIS IS WHAT IS LEFT OF YOUR WOEFULLY UNPREPARED AGENTS. THESE HILLS ARE MINE. STAY OUT OF THEM. I WILL KILL ANY PIG WHO SETS FOOT IN THESE MOUNTAINS. I WILL TAKE TWO HUNDRED SKULLS BEFORE I AM THROUGH. TWO HUNDRED HEAD OF PIG BEFORE I MAY REST. LEAVE US BE OR SEND THEM ON. YOUR CHOICE. MY PLEASURE.
-J.F.F.
Tate has read it a hundred times at least. I had been found on the bodies of two DEA agents on secret maneuvers in these hills, looking for commercial pot grows.
The agents had been missing their weapons, body armor, electronics and heads.
Not fled, nor hiding. The voice was Rook. There was something unmistakably satisfied about it.
Fighting, by God.
iii. dear momma
I write this simply to say goodbye, and to plead with you to leave this area. Go stay with Aunt Flora in Gatlinburg, or your cousin Jean in Ohio. But please leave. This is not a situation that will resolve itself or blow over. No disrespect, but this isn’t a matter for prayer and trust in the Lord.
If the Lord has anything to do with this, it’s the Lord who parted the sea and dealt with Pharaoh. It’s the Lord who made the rock call out ‘No hiding place!’ when the unfaithful sought sanctuary from his wrath.
I know what you are thinking: that your Jimmy finally found an elaborate enough form of suicide to suit his temper. I won’t argue with that, Momma. You may even be right.
But I know this:
What they did to Uncle Paul and Uncle Elmer was wrong. Flat wrong. They were hurting nobody. Taking from nobody. They weren’t stealing or killing or touching a hair on an innocent head. They were growing a flower they liked to smoke.
I have to do this. This is what I’ve been left with. The only path open to me.
Remember when you used to tell me that the Lord put every soul on this Earth for a purpose? And that one day every soul discovered that purpose?
I’ll leave it at that.
I don’t expect to convince you of anything but leaving. Please go. This will be over soon enough. But go to where it’s safe.
Give my love to the family, especially Autumn and Cecee.
Know that I love you, always have, always will.
Goodbye, Momma.
Your son,
Jimmy.
If only the world had a hundred Jimmies in every county. This disgusting war on some vegetables would be over in a week.
Looking forward to the rest.
Comment by Bill — September 11, 2007 @ 4:41 am
Dangeld, huh? That’s not significant or anything…
Comment by Jac — September 11, 2007 @ 11:59 am