Letters from the Backdoor Man:

Episode 4 of The Trailer Park Momma, in Search of the Holy Tail

Fuckin' Texas man, this place kind'a sucks; up around these parts anyway; right on the Oklahoma state line just about. All I seen around here is a bunch'a Rodeo Kings with them big ass belt buckles - The kind that blind the shit out of you when the sun hits them just right. The things about as big as their asses! Sportin' skin tight Wranglers, all different colors: Red, Blue, White, Green, Black. All them dudes and some of them women too, chewin' tobacco like it's goin' outta style; even got permanent Skoal rings in their back pockets as if the jeans were just made that way.

I met this ol' boy once named Cole. He was from the hills of Tennessee; kid was just seventeen and already had a fourteen year old wife with two kids. This dude would sleep with chew in his mouth. He couldn't go no where without the shit. Man, he hooked me up with a pinch one time just after I got done eatin' about three tuna fish sandwiches. It's one thing to puke up some shit you just ate, but when you're trying to force Wonder Bread and Starkist out your nostrils, you find yourself facing some serious issues, and havin' one dumbass hillbilly rollin' all over the ground laughing at you.

Out here that kind'a shit attracts the women. If you ain't wearing Cowboy boots, chewin' dip, two steppin', and line dancing with more faith in Garth Brooks than you have in God, your ass ain't gettin' laid. It's all part of the game in every one-horse town. Just like when I was in Gladewater last week when that motherfucker tried to kill me. That boy was like Sonny Boy Williamson and checking up on his woman every night. It didn't matter whether she wanted to be with him or not. She was stuck with his ass; cause she got herself stuck in that town. And those old towns got rules; hidden rules that you don't know about till you find your ass in the middle of a learnin' lesson from one. Oh Lord, don't give me no country woman! That bitch can stays in the woods where she come from.

I know that the Trailer Park Momma is near. The spirits I have heard speaking in the trees. They rustle about and clang and chatter with their ornaments and their socializing. A realm within a realm, consisting of various cultures and time periods. They go about their business and are usually unaware that I am aware. I was warned by my mother to not let the spirits know that you see them. She said, "They see it as a violation and will take wrath upon you in a most horrendous way. They will drive you mad and make you fight yourself to death: poke and prod at you, running you in circles till you faint from exhaustion, and then continue the process when you come too. You will be swinging at trees and shooting into the thin air. All the while they will whisper "..... Save the last bullet for you......" ".....Save the last bullet for you....." Many a suicide hath been provoked by spirits, son. Be wary of the spirits that cast their eyes on you for too long, for they thirst of blood lust."

I remember sitting on a secluded beach in Florida listening and wandering with my eyes until I came to that somewhat meditative state. One thing about Florida is that its beauty depends upon what part you go to. The part I go to is my own secret, but I can tell you that it is beautiful, but that is just a front, because its history toward humankind is as sordid as any other place in this world. Beautiful, yet indifferent to emotions or hardships of people, which many who have hit this beach in the past centuries endured. Slaves were brought here after hellacious journeys to be traded and bought and abused in ways that are unimaginable to the senses of someone who has never been subject to it. Native Americans were slaughtered here to make room for the more aggressive, and to feed the sands with their blood. Many of nature's creatures have met their fates right where I sit.

Thinking deeply about this entranced me into what it must have been like for some, and I lazily succumbed to my introspection. I was jarred internally when I looked off into a corner near a lone palm tree and saw a very evil looking man staring straight into my eyes. He was a Pirate. A Pirate from long ago with straight vintage dress and a sword strapped to his side. He had a finely trimmed goatee and a hard stone like face. What I have been taught of Pirates such as Capt. L'Ollinais, or Capt. Bill Morgan, who were famous Pirates centuries ago, is that they are merciless! Kill and torture without ever looking back. They'd raid your villages chasing and catching anyone they could. Forcing information out of the innocents for more money in the most bizarre and cruel ways. L'Ollinais himself, carved through a man's chest with a dagger, and cracked through the rib cage with his fist to pull out the still beating heart of a man, and proceeded to bite chunks out of it in order to put fear into anyone who would cross him, and to satisfy his own psycho-pathic urges.

Fear locked my balls up tight, and I tried with everything to continue the roving of my eyes like I had never seen him. But could not do a fucking thing except stare into his menacingly dark eyes, eyes that were angry and wildly glaring, eyes that had waited in anticipation of my awareness. He knew for some strange, fucked up reason. His forehead gripped, and eyes narrowed. The finely trimmed goatee turned up to expose gnashing teeth, and he went for me at a quick pace drawing his sword, and then suddenly vanished in a wisp of smoke. The episode had drained me of all my strength and I grew pale and sick with it. The only thing I could imagine; was that spirits must have temporary residence beyond their control.

I also feel that I am close to my destination because my one-eyed Uncle Jack has been to see me several times. He came to me last night when I was camped out near a Field Artillery base. I had built a fire and stood listening to a steady rumblin' in the distance that shook the very ground. Boom, Boom, Boom! Rapid, then a pause. Boom, Boom, Boom! And intermittently the whole sky would light up with illumination rounds in which you could see everything where there was just pitch darkness. I could even see wild dogs walking along the ridge of the landscape about a mile away from where I was. Their shadows magnified a hundred times over from the ultimate flares in the pale halo type glow of the sky, and that's when my uncle came to me. I was staring into the horizon watching the flashes of Artillery shells detonating violently. Suddenly, I heard from behind a small evil chuckle, and then -- "Hey boy!" I turned around and there he was like he had been standing there forever: Wiry and crazy; his one eye darting back and forth. He had no shirt and was barefoot with long faded blue jeans, dirty and frayed around the ankles. He is mildly hairy, and his arms a bit lanky hanging down by his side, but very muscular. Fingernails black from what appeared to be digging in the dirt. I said, "Damn Jack, don't they let you wash your ass in the spirit world!" "Shut up boy! I've been diggin' up graves boy! Graves of them fine young women! And I makes em' into Zombies you see?! For my own pleasures....."

"Holy Fuck!" I gasped at the mere thought of it.

"Hey! Don't knock it till you tried it boy! Yeah, the walking dead, I got me a fuckin' Harem!" He jaunts back with what I consider to be a pitiful expression.

Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom! Rapid Artillery fire goes off, and my uncle jumps over the fire with a horrible scream, his face twisted, and pounces on top of me forcing me to the ground hard. My lower back getting jammed into a rock. The pain is unbelievable and I go to yell out, but my sounds are completely muffled, cause the ol' boys huge vein ridden hand is gripping over my mouth with his dirt caked fingernails, gouging into my face and drawing blood.

"Shhhh," he breathes into my face with breath similar to that of a decaying, soggy mushroom. I start gagging, and he says in a low voice, breath unceasing its nauseating effect, "Don't worry boy, that's just pussy juice ---Dead pussy juice!" And he smiles with two rows of rotting green, mildewy teeth. "You hear that shit boy?" I can't answer, or even nod my head from the pressure of his hand; he has amazing strength. His one eye is rolling in its socket scanning in every direction. "That's Artillery boy. I knows about Artillery....."

"The night was eerie quiet boy; oh there were sounds, the usual ones in that hot ass climate: insects, night birds and such. And every now and then the ground rumbled far off from bombing raids. But, it was deadly quiet. The air was thick and moist with evil at hand boy. Our platoon was on an ambush that night in Da Nang, back in the Nam', when one of the squad leaders hit an enemy tripwire lighting the whole fuckin' sky up all around us, and the tree line opened with bright rapid flashes. The enemy machine guns started mowing our squad down. Some of us dodged off into small ditches. A hellacious firefight took place. Grenades were lobbed from each side and their concussions were deafening. A few of the troops up front were even engaged in hand to hand combat.

 I saw one poor boy named Private Beach fight his ass off with two Viet Cong that jumped out of the bush on top of him. He had run out of ammo and wrestled himself up throwing kicks and moving his hands wildly. The two were circling and thrashing toward him with their bayonets. Every time I tried to get a bead, a bullet would wizz by my head sending me back into cover. The sky was still lit up and I watched over the berm of the ditch; the ground in front of me kicking up from the bullets hitting it. The Viet Cong took turns stabbing him. All three men were making crazy sounds; not so much like screaming; just sounds forced out by the adrenaline rushing through their bodies. One would strike for him and when he went to block it, the other would stab him real quick anywhere he could get. They stabbed Beach in the arms, legs, hands, stomach, and even his ass! Until he became a whimpering dog on his knees begging for his life! Then they finished him by slicing his throat. My stomach turned at the image that seemed an eternity, but briefer it couldn't of been. The game was murder boy; the first one to win reaps the bounty; quick and violent is the key to this game.

I was able to retreat back to find the Captain and the Radio Controller both dead. The phone had somehow melted itself into the controller's head. Heinous imagery surrounded me and my insides were boiling with anxiety at what to do next. Although the phone was stuck to his head I could hear fire direction control shouting over the landline, "Say again Bravo company! Repeat, say again. Transmission was not successful!" " I pried the blood soaked landline from the controllers head and called in a fire mission to annihilate the whole fuckin' place: Azimuth! Four-niner-niner-two! Deflection! Zero-zero-three! And then yelled "Take Cover!" To anyone who could hear me….. A couple of moments creeped by and then the soothing whistle of steel rain came to blow them fucks all to hell. I stared over the berm of a foxhole and watched as land masses heaved and blew up deeply rooted trees. It was like a tidal wave of dirt, rocks, and wood splintering everywhere. My eardrums were gone and I was digging into the dirt to hold on to something solid that I would never want to let go of; trying to find some solace in the madness; some kind of safety.

The enemy lay strewn in the trees and dirt: heads blown off, arms and legs missing, stomachs turned inside out. Some crazy fucks still alive from the squad even pickin' up the limbs of the enemy and beating to death the ones who didn't die with them. I could hear one dude screamin' in the background; "Is this your arm motherfucker!! Here! You want it back you fuck! You mother fuck!" The Thudding sound of flesh beating flesh adding to the insanity of everything. "Yeah, Artillery boy! To this day it still gives me a warm fuzzy feeling inside...."

I stare wide-eyed into my uncle's face; who is looking at me adoringly, but I know his eye is someplace else. It don't see me right now. It is lost in some kind'a murderous wonderland. He holds the look of pure contentedness; like he just got done blowing his load or somethin'. He yanks me off the ground as quick as he threw me there and travels on the wind across the fire. Floating, he whispers: "I came to warn you boy. The wolf is comin' for you." I stand aghast, and yell; "What the fuck is up with this fucking plague! This fucking Wolf! Who is this damned creature?!" Quietly, he says, "Explanation boy, will come through experience. Remember the things your mother taught you and keep your Mojo bag close at hand....." And with a wisp of smoke he disappeared.

I yelled into the night air, "That doesn't tell me shit you old bastard!!" Off in the distance I could hear his maniacal laughter. I kicked at the red-hot coals in the fire with frustration and went to my bike to grab a beer out of the saddlebag. I pulled my .45 out of my jacket and held it in the air. Admiring it in the soft glow of illuminating Artillery rounds. Crack! Crack! Crack! I fired three rounds into the air. Yeah, whoever the fuckin' wolf is, is gonna get one of these slugs straight up its ass......

Next month: The Wolf, God, and the Flesh.