Letters from The Backdoor Man

Episode 3 of the Trailer Park Momma in Search of the Holy Tail

Letters from the Backdoor Man

by McTeague

I made it out of Mississippi yesterday evenin'; had enough of that state; damn near got killed out there anyway, but that ain't nothin' new. I been riding about eight hours, cuttin' through the northern part of Louisiana. My original home is just down past New Orleans, out in the swamplands; ain't no use for me goin' down there though; I'm not feeling too sentimental or reminiscent. Nobody down there for me no more anyhow. My mother, who achieved a status of a Voodoo Priestess, disappeared a long time ago. She left a note and a Will leaving everything to me. I just let the place sit, cause I'm a traveler. I guess I'll go back one day.

Her note to me was brief: "My Son, do not worry for I am safe, and we will meet again in the land of spirits amongst the jungles and hilltops of the Caribbean isles. I am leaving you instructions for potions and spells you will need in order to survive your coming trials. Do well and master them; keep your Uncle straight, and I will visit you in your dreams..."

I took all her instructions and keep them with me wherever I go; can't say that I can make much sense out of em'; besides I ain't never run into a situation my .45 caliber couldn't handle, and as far as my one-eyed Uncle Jack is concerned, that man reached a level in the Voodoo world known as a Bocur: translated -- Voodoo Magician. He is capable of maneuvering in and out of the spirit world. And once that happened, that boy decided to stay with the spirits. I have only seen him a few times in the past couple years, and those were during times of extreme duress. He doesn't appear in a physical form though; it is more like a wavy mirage to inform, or warn me. His lunacy obviously undeterred even in the world of the dead. The long unkempt back woods hair, not uncommon for leaves and shit to be stuck in it. A wiry chest length beard, and that goddamn piratical patch over his eye. His laughter is maniacal, and yet he speaks intelligence. I still have a hard time digesting it all.

Either way, for now my soul leads me to Texas, on the journey to the Trailer Park Momma. I feel that Texas is not my final destination, but am drawn to travel that route. It's about mid-morning, and the air is warm and sticky. A storm has been brewing up for a couple hours now. The sky is dark gray and the clouds are rolling with a strong wind. Somehow, I feel that the Lord is about to piss all over this here land. Im'a have to set up camp tonight I'm sure.

I'm finally into the state of Texas and I'm fuckin' starvin'! I head to a town called Gladewater to get some chow, and pull into this place named the Greasy Spoon. Yeah, Hogfat baby! I need me some Hogfat! I park next to what seems to be the only type of vehicles at this joint, a bunch of pick-up trucks with rifle racks in em'. The stupid cowbell rings obnoxiously as I walk through the door, and there is a sudden pang of silence with the smell of coffee and cigarette smoke stagnating in the air making it thick and choking. Every good ol' boy in here is wearing a John Deere cap on their head and staring right at me, like I just got zapped down from the X-Files or somethin'. These people don't look like they're used to seeing no strangers around here; especially ones dressed in black and blue.

I stomp through and pay it no mind, and slowly the place starts to pick up the sound and the pace it held prior to my entrance; just a couple of curious glances here and there. Good, cause I sure would hate to have to go fuckin' up some of these farm boys. It would be a nasty little thing too, cause I know I would have to shoot one of em'. Most them boys are out baling hay and workin' that farm all day and you can bet your ass they're strong as hell. You can only take one or two and then your ass is all done. Any man that can roll up his sleeves and ram his fist up the backside of a cow's ass to make some kind of bio-degradable sperm pill burst open in her ovulation tubes or somethin'; is too much man for me.

I take off my jacket and sit down at the breakfast counter on one of them stools that spins all around. A fine lookin' auburn haired waitress dressed in one of those pink work uniforms, donning a white laced apron around her thin womanly waist approached me: "You want some coffee honey?" "Yeah, bring some of that shit on over here." I says to her. My eyes run from her beautiful face to her perky little titties, down past her thighs where her white stockings start to peek out from her knee high skirt. Now that's a sweet piece of ass!

She comes back with the coffeepot and pours me a cup of Texas mud. I notice that her name is Tiffany from her nametag. She stares at my arms and runs her fingers dreamily across a huge scar that travels from the top of my shoulder blade to the front edge of my left bicep. "Oh my goodness!" she says. "How did that happen?" "From fighting for my life woman, now you got some ham and eggs around here or what? I'm fuckin' hungry." "Easy darling, you don't have to be rude. I'll take care of you." I look at her and she looks a bit offended and hurt. I say, "Listen Tiffany, I want to get some chow and get up on out of here; before some kind of Walton's uprising takes place around here, you know what I'm saying? In case you ain't noticed, I don't exactly fit in around this joint." She chuckles, and says: "Them boys aren't gonna try nothin' with you. They're to busy talkin' about fishing for Christ's sake! But, I hear you honey."

I ate like a big dog, and Tiffany came up to give me the check; she winked and walked sexily away. The check said, "No Charge" with an arrow pointing toward the back. I flipped it over and it read, "Come get me at eight o'clock." Hmm, I think I can do that. I drove a few miles away from the restaurant and found a wooded area to pull off into. The threatening clouds had just begun to trickle out their saturation. I set up my tent and parked my bike under a heavily leafed tree; built a small fire and rolled up a joint. I start to remember the deformed wretched figure in the back of the prison bus, and what she wrote. It said: "The wolf is coming." Yeah, coming for what and who?! And what the fuck was that crazy lookin' bitch doing on that bus anyway? You'd think they kept shit like that locked up in some basement somewhere, loaded on drugs and strapped to a bed…..

I stare into the mesmerizing fire. Fire is a very magical thing; it can do things to the mind, when it drifts and whips with the wind feathering the ground. It can transduce you into some of the most intense imaginations running through your mind. Dusk is settling in, and the rain is picking up to a heavy sprinkle. The woods grow dark around me, and I swear that I hear a cold whisper from within the darkness; "The Wolf" and the breeze rustles up leaves in the trees sending a chill up the back of my neck. I look down at the half a joint in my hand and cast it into the fire. Holy fuck, am I tripping out! I took an entrenching tool out of my saddle bag and got busy digging out a trench around my tent for drainage, cause I know its fixin' to downpour. And going by something I heard one time: "When in doubt, or when freaking out, it's time to go to work boy."