So, I had that feeling of the foundations of my faith being shaken not unlike many, many young folks who, at some point in their maturing process, realize that life is not like the fairy tales that they were led to believe in, and they come to an understanding that the only real monsters are their fellow humans. I didn’t need air. After all, I was standing on a creek bank in the wide open not even underneath the pavilion, but outside of it. I needed reassurance. I needed not to be there where I could still see the gray dirt darkened by the mutt’s blood and the sweeping marks in the dust made by its front legs and head as Jimbo had unceremoniously dragged it out by the one back leg. I didn’t want to listen anymore to the hum of the brutal crowd of spectators who had wagered on the one-sided fight and who would continue betting on or against other sacrificial beings. I walked away out into the total darkness of the deep woods to clear my head and collect my thoughts, but before I crossed completely out of the light cast by the brooder bulb, I saw into the back of Jimbo’s red and white Silverado and noticed that there were six plastic dog carriers in the truck bed. The darkness concealed the creatures huddled and shivering within the crates who had heard and smelled the death of their doppelganger and had some sense that their desperate bids to extend their miserable lives were coming soon, but I knew they were there. I might have heard a whine. If I didn’t, my imagination has remembered a whimper for me, placed it in that spot so that I knew there were five more semblances of dogs in those carriers. That is the way memory and imagination work together.
Anyway, swimming through my own muddy pond of sympathy and pity, I wandered through the parking area toward Uncle Boog’s truck. I could see the camper outlined in black against the edge of the horizon, and I headed toward that. I should have noticed, as I neared Uncle Boog’s truck, a woman leaning against a long car that was parked about twenty feet from the back of the truck, but I didn’t, and I only know she was there when I strolled by at first because she told me so a few minutes later. I walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and felt around in the pitch black for a pack of cigarettes on the seat. I did not feel any, so I pulled myself up into the seat by the sissy handle, banged on the button of the glove box with the side of my hand, and pulled the door down. I jerked my lighter out of my pocket, lit it long enough to see the familiar red and white colors of my favorite style of name brand cigarettes, and fished a pack out of the carton with my other hand. Without even trying to look, I found the gold stripe of string around the top of the pack and tore it in a circle. I threw the little plastic tearaway out the window, thumped the pack against the dash, and peeled off the aluminum seal. I tapped the pack a couple of times to get a couple of cigarettes sticking out and pulled one free from the tight bunch between my finger and thumb. I stuck it in my mouth, lit it, drew in a deep breath of the tasty thick smoke, and then blew the smoke out toward the roof. The buzz of the nicotine immediately caused my ears to tingle and the hair of my neck to stand on end. Then, I felt the tickle seep from my chest out my arms to the tips of my fingers and down into my groin. It made my insides hum while spreading a calming blanket over my brain. If you ever smoked for any amount of time in your life and then quit for twenty years like I have, you want to think that smoking really did feel that good and that the feeling I describe here made all the other bad effects of smoking worth it. If you haven’t quit smoking, you can’t fantasize about it like I just did. That cigarette that I smoked so long ago seemed perfect, and I’m not gonna act like it wasn’t to be politically correct. Whatcha gonna do?
Anyhow, feeling better already and quickly forgetting the discomfort that had nearly overwhelmed me only a few minutes earlier, I turned my attention and focus on the night that surrounded me. Like I said, it was a dark and moonless evening at the time though I had no idea what the time actually was. I hadn’t seen a clock or heard the time announced since I left the house. I would guess it was probably around nine, but it could have been ten thirty. It doesn’t make any difference. Here away from the lights of a town or the buzzing nightlights of country houses, the glitter of stars filled in the blackness of the sky completely, but star glitter is not strong enough to cast much light down below the treetops, so I was sitting in near total darkness. However, a broad luminous glow on the eastern horizon portended the appearance of a moon that I’m pretty sure had been full the night before. I leaned back into the truck seat and intently stared at the horizon as I took long drags on that sweet cigarette and let each draw creep out of my mouth and nose slowly. I reached over to turn the key on so that I could, perhaps, turn the radio on, but Uncle Boog had taken the key, so I just closed my eyes and listened to the music in my head. I might have dozed off. I really can’t say for sure, but when I opened my eyes from the reverie, the top half of the full moon perched on Walt Moore Ridge like the backside of a bleached white skull, and its light illuminated the fog flowing in streams down the bevels in the ridge so that it looked like a ghostly white mane of thick hair sprouting from the back of Death’s head. It reminded me of the cover of an Iron Maiden album. You know if you saw Eddie the Head from the back. Oh, yeah, I guess not many of my readers would know who Eddie the Head is since albums and their covers haven’t been a thing in…well, I’ll not even gonna embarrass myself by guessing how long it’s been since people bought albums.
Anyhow, whew! you get over stuff quick when you’re seventeen, and I was over the shock of discovering the savagery of my fellow man already. No, I would not go back to the pavilion and watch dogs kill one another. I was determined that I would not think about it either. I had a plan. I would sit on the tailgate of Uncle Boog’s truck with a pack of name brand smokes, drink cold beer, and design album covers in my mind until the dogfighting activities were over. Then, Uncle Boog would take me home, I’d get maybe two hours of sleep, and by the time I was hauling hay Sunday afternoon for C. A. Hastings, this terrible experience would all be a distant and vague memory. That was my plan. I’ll go ahead and tell you so that you don’t have to guess. Things did not work out according to my plan at all.
I reckon I am going to end this chapter right here. I got a rather desperate complaint from one of my less capable readers that the last chapter was way too long, and they seem to be getting longer. He said it took him nearly thirty minutes to read the whole last chapter, and he couldn’t read anymore of the story if it took so much of his time. I made sure that this section takes only about four minutes to read. I hope you’re happy, Ardell! Now, you’ve got twenty-six minutes more to look at porn on the web before you go pick Vicki up from her shift at the Speedee Mart. Don’t think lots of people don’t know what you do with your time.
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