hyphenated arkansas, and a goat

The road to Lake Catherine State Park was damned attractive for a few reasons: There were generally no cops, and one of the curves edged into a wet county. Beer. ’69 GTO. Switch-backs on a fine-lined blacktop through the piney hills landing up at a semi-deserted ex-German POW camp turned watery, deserted place to fuck up in the off- season.


Strawberry-flavored wheat-papers around seedy Mexican weed. Five-for-five to get stoned. Swing the rope off the 50 foot pine and belly-flop the gars on the surface. Drown the last Pabst or Schlitz under the thunderhead.


“Goddam, boys, it’s rainin’.” JD was the craziest. He’d hunt out a Diamondback and trade kisses.


“Yup. Let’s go.”


Headlights made no difference when the rain’s sideways. Watch the line.


Leeroy had sense. “Slow down, motherfucker. I cain’t see.”


I didn’t. “Fuck you, Leeroy.”


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSssssssssssssssssSSSSSSSSSSSSS OH FUCKKKK the Goat spun left almost ass-wise JD tried to flat track it with a 396 punch back right ditch time flip upside down roof crumblins busted glass scoopin wet red mud and ditch weeds AHHHHH SHITTTTTT


Bonk. Farm fence post. Trees.


“Fuck. Ya’ll aight?”


“I reckon.”


“OH MY GAWD I’M BLIND. I CAIN’T FUCKIN’SEE, MOTHERFUCKERS.”


“MMMrrmm.”


“Shutup, Leeroy, you gots mud in yer eyes.”