Uncle Boog and the Mexican Victor Sanchez had rolled out of Uncle Boog’s tackle like a couple of professional wrestlers on Saturday Night Fights and come to balanced positions on their knees. Sanchez was on both knees like he was a standing but with his feet out behind him. His eyes stayed focused on Uncle Boog as he reached behind with his right hand to a leather sheathe tucked into the small of his back inside his pants, and he pulled out what me and my buddies would have called a “Rambo” knife. You know after the best of Sylvester Stallone’s movie characters. Yeah, it’s not Rocky. Rocky sucks. He was a perpetual underdog, and, well, let’s not have another sermon right here.
Anyway, this knife Sanchez pulled out had a twelve-inch blade with a sawtooth ridge along its spine. I couldn’t make out the handle type because it was in Sanchez’s hand, and it was night besides. The blade flashed in the moonlight scary enough for everyone to see that it was an extremely dangerous weapon not to be mistaken for a toy. With weapons now in play, I knew that Uncle Boog would pull his knife from out its holster inside his cowboy boot. Sure enough, without taking his eye off the Mexican, Uncle Boog was a rolling up his pants leg over the handle of what he called “The Pig Sticker.” This weapon was made exactly like the original Bowie knife, or so Uncle Boog told everyone who would listen to his stories. I never could figure out how he would be aware of Jim Bowie’s personal weaponry. Maybe he read it in a library somewhere. Who knows? Anyhow, the blade was similar to the Rambo knife except for smooth and straight on the top, and the metal was visibly thicker. There was no hand guard at the end of the blade. The metal went straight into the handle with no break. The sword-like knife wasn’t made for sawing or stabbing. It was made for slicing and chopping in a swinging motion. Unlike some Rambo knives, it wasn’t made for a camping tool, and it didn’t have a compass on the end or a hollowed out place for matchsticks neither. It had no use except for fighting. Now, I know what the Bowie knife is because I have looked it up on the Internet a few times since it occurred to me that I might write this story, and my doubts about Uncle Boog’s knowledge of such things is immaterial since the past cannot be changed, but, in the moment, I had serious doubts that Uncle Boog had ever taken his Bowie knife out of his cowboy boot for anything other than show-and-tell. I guess I should not have doubted Uncle Boog, but the fact is that I was finding out quite a few things about Uncle Boog that evening that I didn’t know about before.
Anyway, the two men had both drawn their knives, come up off their knees, settled into fighting crouches, and started moving in a large circle around an unseen center, seemingly prepared to start hacking, slicing, and jabbing at one another, but that never did happen. Before either got within cutting and stabbing distance of the other, a shotgun blast boomed from somewhere outside the circle of Mexicans, making everybody left in the Pour Off parking area jump and look around wildly to find the source of the unexpected blast. Some of the crowd started ducking behind cars, and some stood in place but curled themselves up to make smaller targets. I was one of those bobbing down like a shot deer I’m pretty sure. Even Uncle Boog and Sanchez took their eyes off one another as Jimbo Tuttle stepped in between them, pointing a pistol in his hand at the two men and then waving it in a circle across everyone in the crowd including me. Right behind Jimbo, Gopher Lewis stepped into the middle of the skirmish, smoke still oozing from the barrel of the pump shotgun that he had fired into the air to get everyone’s attention. With the crowd well-covered with firearms by his two henchmen, Ozzie Plimpton waddled out from the shadows behind Jimbo’s red and white Silverado. He shuffled down the slight slope as if he feared he might fall and roll, but he didn’t, and when he got to where he stood between Uncle Boog and Victor Sanchez, he raised his hands to his chest, made motions with them like he was showing folks how to put something down, and announced in a voice as emotionless as the gate announcer at the Greyhound bus stop in Newport, AR.
“My boys see any weapons in any hands they have been told to shoot to kill.”
He turned his fat, piggish body in a full circle, his snake eyes locking up with the eyes of every person facing that direction. He looked at me last, sneered, and added for all to hear.
“I’m not kidding neither.”
Many of the Mexican men in the crowd dropped hands to their sides that had been sneaking around to their backs or up into their armpits to shoulder holsters. Ozzie sidled nearer to where Uncle Boog stood, keeping his eye on the crowd. When he walked by me, I could see the black snub nose of a pistol barrel barely poking out of his fat mitt of a hand. As he approached Uncle Boog, he put this hand with the pistol up on the back of Uncle Boog’s neck. I couldn’t say whether the gun was pointed at Uncle Boog or not, but I know that he had to feel the cool, hard metal against his skin somewhere. Ozzie whispered where he thought only Uncle Boog would hear, but I heard it too.
“Drop the knife, Boog.”
Uncle Boog let go of the Bowie knife, and it fell straight to the ground as his hands dropped limp at his hips. Ozzie moved toward Victor Sanchez who still had his knife in his hand and was still crouched as if he might attack someone. Ozzie’s arm with the pistol in hand drew up straight with his shoulder as if he were about to point his finger at the Mexican. For such an intense situation, Ozzie’s voice remained detached once again as he made a grave threat.
“That knife has three seconds to be in the dirt, or I shoot you in the face. One, two...”
The knife fell and hit the soft dirt with an audible thump. Ozzie lowered his arm and put the pistol into the front pocket of his pants, or somewhere else that I couldn’t see from where I stood. I could just tell that he didn’t have it in his hand anymore when he rubbed them together palm to palm and suggested a plan more favorable to his economic interests.
“Now, it’s obvious that you two boys feel like you have some sort of disagreement that needs settling.”
For the first time, his speech showed some feeling as he said the word “boys” with great disdain and condescension. I started noticing that same pomposity through his whole speech even though the voice was nearly monotone.
“I don’t care what your feud is about. I doubt either one of you could explain why you’re fightin’. But, if you feel like fightin’ and dyin’, and I clearly see that you do, you might as well let others make some sport of it, and maybe the winner can even make some money too. Let’s take this on up to the dogfighting ring and take a few minutes to allow some placing of odds and wagers. Make this worth more than just two dumb kids trying to kill one another.”
Well, if my head had been swimming in a river of confusion and desperation earlier in the evening when the mutt was slaughtered by The Tiger, I was a drowning in all my chaotic thoughts now. It was me who had touched the feet of Felina not Uncle Boog. Innocent as I was, Uncle Boog was even more so. He had been clear that he would have told me stay away from Felina if he had known of the situation, and he had tried to get me out of it by leaving this place quickly when he found out. Now, Uncle Boog was standing in my stead through no fault of his own and being offered up as a sacrifice to this Victor Sanchez who appeared to have the manual on fighting and mortal combat written in scars all over his face. I couldn’t even imagine what Uncle Boog might have to offer in response. Think about it.
Think about what I have told you here in this story, about what I ‘ve told you about Uncle Boog. My whole life, all he ever did was lay up in the shade of a tree in his truck seat snoozing or sleepily watching others work. I had never seen him participate in any athletic events of any sort, even backyard baseball or a pick-up basketball game. I’d never even seen him run a short footrace in my immediate recollection. I figured it took too much energy, and the expenditure of such force always seemed like it would kill Uncle Boog. Now, he was gonna have to buck up and fight with all he had, or he was gonna get killed, and, still, it was all my fault. I had touched the wicked woman’s feet ignorantly and innocently, but I had done it, not Uncle Boog. What was I to do? I had to do something. I had to find a way out this, but I did not have so much as a clue to that how. The stars started spinning in the sky, the hills, black against the horizons were folding in toward me, and I felt like running away. As dizzy as I was, I knew I should run. Hadn’t Uncle Boog said something about running earlier? I think he did.
Anyhow, with my head a whirling and swirling like I was on a madhouse merry-go-round, I looked up across the parking lot, and there Felina stood, staring at me and a smiling. She must have put on some lipstick or gloss since I’d last seen her because her lips looked black in the bright moonlight. Her white teeth shined from inside the black smile. She put a hand to her mouth and blew a black kiss across the parking lot. I saw it flutter like a moth through the star shine and moon beams in a crooked path right toward me. I knew it was poison, and if it lighted on me, I would die. Luckily, as the kiss flitted and fluttered a few feet from my face, Uncle Boog said, “Let’s go,” and the wicked buss burst like a bubble before my eyes.
While I was struggling to deal with Felina’s attack on my psyche, Ozzie had called Gopher over to him and sent him running in his bow-legged trot up over the hill to catch any of the locals who might still be around. Jimbo herded up the Mexicans, and with Victor Sanchez and his woman Felina in the center, they walked in a pack up toward the pavilion together. The size of the Mexican crowd had been greatly increased by a large number of their women who had apparently been sitting in the cars waiting patiently and silently while the dogfights had been going on. It seemed that Felina had been the only Mexican woman brave enough to get out of the car, but now that they were all outside, they were willing to loudly proclaim their opinions about the current state of affairs. I had no idea what they were saying due to their Mexican fast-talking, but they were eager to say it, and they waved their hands and arms emphatically as they shouted. Their frantic gesturing and snippy comments had no effect on Jimbo Tuttle who stayed at the back of the group acting like a shepherd dog, watching the fringes of the flock, making sure that none of them shot off into the dark like a stray calf. I still hadn’t moved since Uncle Boog said to go, and we stood together alone in the middle of the parking area. He bent over, picked up his knife, and handed it to me. I was terrified and my voice was cracked and shaky when I asked Uncle Boog the question that had to be asked.
“Whatcha gonna do, Uncle Boog?”
He grinned a confident grin, tousled my hair with a big ol’ hand, and playfully chucked my nose. I knew then that he was insane, that he had no grasp on reality, and that I should have kept a safe distance from him before now and should for the rest of my days. There was no fear on that man’s face. I looked harder to see if I could find a wrinkle of concern. If there was one there, the soft moonlight smoothed it out. His nonchalant attitude should have told me something, but it didn’t say it loud enough. I still ponder how much I really know about my own Uncle Boog, and I am persuaded that I know him better than anybody. All that I can say for sure is that young people, like I was then, tend to whitewash the faults of those who are willing to feed our vices. He fed mine, and I painted that fence. After all was said and done, I know that Uncle Boog is a mad man. Trust me. Only a person without a rational brain cell could have uttered so calmly what he said to me next.
“Why, Dewey Lynne Bugler, I’m gonna go up here and win this fight and make enough money to keep us in cold beer for a long time. Come on. You might learn something. Besides that, we’ve got to get this done. It’s past my bedtime.”
He clapped me on the back, drew me in under his arm, and we started walking up toward the circle of light under the bright brooder bulb beneath the pavilion. I couldn’t tell you what we looked like together, but I felt like a prisoner being marched to the gallows, and his mind was on cold beer and bedtime. Maybe, he was the one whose head was in the right place. Today, I’m not sure, but whatcha gonna do?
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