A Southern Psycho

Naked, Janet came out into the hallway. "There's another one outside with Merle making him dig up the money."

As she spoke the front door opened. Ben raised his automatic. Merle stepped inside, a pistol at the ready, a shocked look on his face. "Whaa--"

"They're all dead. What about the one with you?" Ben said.

Merle glanced at Janet who, realizing she was naked, turned back to the bedroom.

"I gave him a shovel full of dirt in the face. Then beat him over the head with it."

"It's better to give than receive," Ben said. "Let's get these bastards in the trunk of their car. I know a place where we can dump it in the river."

They carried Bull into the garage then Eddie. Ben popped the trunk, stared inside then closed it.

"Aren't we gonna put'em in?" Merle said.

"Naw, it's already full. Put'em in the back seat, then we'll go get the other one."

~33~

Several weeks later two flying monkeys showed up looking for their missing agents and the drug money. Ben tried to be helpful, but there was nothing he could really tell them. Yeah, he'd found the money and told the agents where it was, but that was the last he'd seen of them.

"Gee, you don't suppose they took off with it, do you?"

~34 ~

Buck sat on his front porch watching the snow flakes fall like dead moths. It would soon be Christmas, and he had no money. No money to buy presents for the wife and kids. Hell, no money for food. He'd applied for food stamps but hadn't heard from his case worker in three weeks.

He reached inside his coat for a smoke, then remembered he didn't have any. Didn't have enough money to even buy a god damn pack of cigarettes. He rubbed his face with both palms. They were tear stained when he withdrew them. God, what am I gonna do? I'd kill myself if it wasn't for the wife and kids. Twenty-eight years old and I've got nothing.

Yesterday the repo men came and took his Mack truck when he couldn't keep up the payments. He'd called his cus to see if he could get him a job as a lumper--but no dice. People were being laid-off everywhere. There weren't any god damn jobs. What's a feller supposed to do? Everything's being outsourced to some god damn foreign country. And what the fuck was he gonna do when the rent came due next week? He was already two months behind.

He reached for a cigarette, then dropped his hand.

The snow was pretty. It covered up all the shit. He saw a UPS truck coming up the road. It stopped in front. The driver got out dressed in his browns holding a large parcel in his hands.

"You must have the wrong address," Buck said. He'd never received a delivery by UPS.

"Are you Buck Saylor, 125 Elm Tree Road?"

"Uh, yeah."

"It's yours." He held out a computerized clip board, and Buck signed on the pen pad.

He held the boxed package up. It was heavy. It had been gift-wrapped with pictures of Santa Claus in his sleigh being pulled by his reindeers. There was no return address. He shook it, but it made no noise; nothing loose. It was about the size of a extra-large shoe box. He got out his pocket knife and began cutting away the wrapping and the tape holding the flaps down, and when he pulled'em up, he saw stacks of crisp, new, one hundred dollars bills and a pack of cigarettes.

A card read, "Merry Christmas."

THE END