Scary Rednecks & Other Inbred Horrors

  Scary Rednecks and Other Inbred Horrors

  By Weston Ochse & David Whitman

  Copyright © 2010 by Weston Ochse, David Whitman, & Macabre Ink

  Crossroad Press First Digital Edition

  Originally published in 2000 by Darktales Publications in Trade Paperback

  LICENSE NOTE:

  This e-BOOK is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-BOOK may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

  Praise for Scary Rednecks and Other Inbred Horrors

  "The more I read and re-read this collection, the more I am moved by the stories. I really can't recommend this one enough. I will say that it's more than its cover promises. Several of the stories are as touching as they are chilling. A few are hilarious. Almost all of them are absorbing. This is impressive." –Doug Clegg

  "This is better than the hype. I don't want to go overboard, but stories in the book will remind many readers of the good stuff by Edward Lee and Joe Lansdale and probably Bill Faulkner. There were times, reading some of them, when I was put in mind of Flannery O'Connor."–Richard Laymon

  "Once a year, the field of horror literature produces a short story, novel, anthology or collection that pushes the limits, breaks new ground and raises the genre to new heights. This is such a book. Their voice is unique, a mix of Edward Lee, Tom Piccirilli, Nietzsche, Sam Kinison, and Steinbeck. Place those ingredients in a blender, shake well, and the result is this book." –Brian Keene

  INTRODUCTION

  "You might be a redneck if ... "

  How many times have we heard that? It's always followed by a punchline — usually, I must admit, a funny one. Those punchlines have provided a good living for southern comic Jeff Foxworthy. As funny as Foxworthy is, though, it's impossible to ignore the fact that he's putting muscle on the already substantial frame of one of the last remaining accepted stereotypical misconceptions: The Great White Redneck of the South.

  The Great White Redneck lives in a trailer, drives a pick-up with a gun on the rack across the back window, and regularly attends exhibition events involving giant trucks. There's usually a battered car up on blocks in front of his trailer, but if not, look for a sink, a toilet, or an old swamp cooler somewhere nearby. The Great White Redneck's hygiene is suspect, his sexual proclivities degenerate and often illegal in most states, and according to most of those punch lines, his family tree doesn't have a whole lot of branches on it.

  Foxworthy is certainly not responsible for this stereotype, and he is far from alone in keeping it alive. You'll see the Great White Redneck in movies and TV shows, always with a drawling southern accent. I'm sure I've been guilty of breathing life into the beast somewhere in my own work.

  We should know better, of course. We should be able to look at these hollow stereotypes and laugh at them, not with them. We know people from the south are not like that — we've met and know them, we've worked with them, we've read them. Some of the most wonderful literature ever written has come from the south — Samuel Clemmons, Horton Foote, Flannery O'Connor, Larry McMurtry, William Faulkner, Joe R. Lansdale, Carson McCullers, on and on — it's a long list, and we all know that.

  But somehow, that stereotype remains healthy. In a way, it makes us sadly predictable.

  Along comes a short story collection called Scary Rednecks and Other Inbred Horrors. Doesn't exactly sound like a book that's going to suck the life out of that stereotype, does it? In fact, it appears to be just the kind of thing that will keep that stereotype up on its feet and walking around ... with its jeans dropped in the back and its hairy butt-crack showing, of course.

  So who are the two guys responsible for Scary Rednecks and other Inbred Horrors? What are they up to and what do they have to say for themselves? What do they know about the American south and its people?

  Weston Ochse was born in Wyoming, David Whitman in Pennsylvania. That hardly makes them southerners. However, very early in life, Weston was relocated to Tennessee, David to Florida, "which," David says, "isn't exactly what you would call the deep south, but there sure were a lot of what I would call Good Old Boys around."

  If I'm not mistaken, Good Old Boys are a more refined breed of the Great White Redneck of the South. They appear to be quite prevalent in Texas. I'm not sure, but I think one way to tell them apart is by the size of their belt buckles.

  Growing up in Tennessee and Florida, I'm sure Weston and David came into contact with plenty of people who could rightly be called "rednecks." And yes, there are rednecks, they do exist. Most stereotypes are not complete falsehoods, they are gross distortions — like all good lies, stereotypes usually include a grain of truth somewhere in their history. The biggest distortion about the Great White Redneck of the South is that he is not, by any means, southern. He is everywhere.

  I live in California, and I am surrounded by rednecks. I'm serious, don't get me started, you'll wish you hadn't. They bear a frightening resemblance to all those comical stereotypes you see in the movies and on TV — except they are not southern. Even though they've never left the county, many of them drawl when they speak, but a drawl and a southern accent are two entirely different things — the people I'm talking about drawl because they're too lazy to speak properly.

  The idea that America's southern states are populated solely by rednecks is, of course, simply not true. But David Whitman and Weston Ochse, if not southerners by birth, were brought up in southern states. The stories in their collection are distinctly southern. They are solidifying the tissue that links southerners with rednecks ... aren't they?

  They met when both subscribed to the Horror Writers e-mail list, and later decided to try collaborating. Although their styles are different, they discovered an interesting chemical reaction. David has been writing since childhood, when he wrote short stories and comic books. Weston, on the other hand, came to writing later, at the age of 30. While David's affection for the horror genre dates back to his childhood, Ochse's roots are in science fiction, his interest in darker fiction more recent. When they aren't writing, David is a psychologist and social worker, and Weston is an interrogator for the U.S. Army.

  What would inspire them to put together a collection like this? Do they believe the stereotype to be true?

  In a GothicNet interview with writer Brian Keene, Weston said, "I am from Chattanooga, Tennessee. I am white. I am Christian. I have blond hair and blue eyes. Shit, I am the poster child for all politically correct groups; I am the definition of the one to hate. ... I hate stereotypes."

  So ... are they rednecks?

  David calls himself "neurotic and sometimes introverted" and says he listens to jazz. Weston drinks wine and likes to watch Wolfgang Puck and The Christopher Lowell Show on television, for crying out loud. These are things that no self-respecting redneck would be caught dead doing in any part of the country.

  So what's the deal?

  "I think that rednecks are the last great heroes, sometimes," Weston says. "They think of the result rather than how they look. Rednecks are universal."

  Universal, not southern. The redneck is everywhere, and, I believe, within all of us. Jeff Foxworthy's punchlines make us laugh, but every once in awhile, one makes us nod and maybe frown a little, doesn't it? Because it's just a little too close to home, right? How many of us h
ave not, in some private moment when we knew we were unobserved, said our name as we belched? How many of us, when surrounded by children at some well-fed family event, have been unable to resist the urge to execute the "pull-my-finger" maneuver? There's a little of it in all of us, I think.

  But does the collection contribute to the stereotype? Weston says, "I don't know."

  While it certainly does not set out to shatter stereotypes, I think this collection contains enough humanity to avoid doing any damage in the other direction. Its primary aim is to entertain, which it does quite well. It's a darkly comic, sometimes hilarious, sometimes haunting and moving ride through a landscape both ugly and beautiful.

  But still ... why that title?

  "What we did play on," Weston said in the GothicNet interview, "was the prejudice of the public when we chose our campy title, Scary Rednecks and Other Inbred Horrors. It virtually guaranteed that someone would pick it up thinking, 'Hey, I have an uncle who is just like this.'"

  Ah-hah! So that's what's going on! We've been played! Hell, I fell for it.

  And good for them. It's precisely what we deserve for being so damned predictable.

  –Ray Garton

  Catfish Gods

  by Weston Ochse

  Trey sat on the community dock, staring out across the green August water of Chicamauga Reservoir, his tanned legs swinging gently, fingers gripping the rough gray wood as thoughts of pleasure and mortality mingled within his thirteen year old mind. His grandfather had died six months ago and there were times when the heat and the bickering of his family and the memory of the loss became so much, he needed to be alone. He would sit and remember every word the old man had spoken; every action and every smile. He basked in the memories. All grandfathers are special, but Trey felt his was even more so. It was as if, the man’s mere presence could calm the world. It was as if he was a God and when Gods die, one never forgets.

  The dock was where Trey went when he needed to think; to remember. Other than his bed, it was the one place he spent most of his time. His first fight, his first bass, the first time he slid his trembling fingers along the curve of a breast as he massaged oil into the soft skin of an older high school girl, had all taken place on the dock. It was called the community dock, but had been abandoned by the city years before he moved into the neighborhood. Although access to the dock had grown over with tall weeds, a path had been pounded into the red Tennessee dirt by a faithful herd of eager children who now called it their own. It was a sacred place, one where parents never tread.

  There was one month a year when you couldn’t swim in the lake and this was the month. It made the interminably hot days long and filled with a hundred attempts to ease the constant boredom. The only good thing was that the mosquitoes had been all been killed when the TVA men lowered the water level by several feet, leaving the eggs to dry and die along the muddy beaches of the lake. The side effect, of course, was that long weeds grew up from the lake bottom as the sun, for the first time since winter, finally managed to plumb the depths, arousing the lake’s deadly kudzu cousin. The weeds were as thick as a wrist and halted fishing, boating and now even swimming since Billy Prescott drowned last year. They said the weeds had wrapped around him a dozen times as if the leafy arms had reached out and snagged him, but that was just something the grownups said to scare the kids away.

  Even Trey’s thirteen year old mind, identified his freedom and the golden sunset against the green water as a rare time, a time he would remember when he was old and the lessons of school and the minutiae of life long forgotten.

  The next day dawned ugly, the brightness of the summer sun dulled by the dish-water sky. The lake was slate gray and the waves seemed to reach up as if to try and free the oppressed light. Trey struggled out of bed and plodded into the kitchen. The coldness of the sky did nothing to alleviate the humidity, sweat immediately forming as a second skin. He poured himself a tall orange juice, and held the glass momentarily against his face. As he drank, he walked to the floor to ceiling window and eyed the driveway. Only the old Ford was left. His parents had driven to Laverne for a Sunday gathering, part business, part fun, they had said. He had been invited, but had pretended to be sick and promised to stay in bed until they returned. At thirteen, his parents had lengthened their leash, and today, was the first day they had ever let him free.

  Trey grinned. They had planned it well, he and Greg. Today was their fishing day. They were going to try the loading dock across the inlet at the old TNT plant. It was the deepest place in the entire lake, except for the dam itself. Barges parked there weekly and loaded up the Army’s secret stuff, creating rumors that were fun to propagate. If all the tales were even half-true, then there were fish down there as large as automobiles.

  He’d dressed and was getting the gear together in the garage when Greg swung around the corner of the driveway, toting his favorite rod and an oversized tacklebox.

  “What’s up, Trey? You ready for a little fishing? Ready to catch the big one?”

  Greg was three years younger, but a good friend nonetheless. When it came to fishing, age didn’t matter anyway. As long as you were patient and followed a few basic rules, it was God’s will that sent the fish your way. At least that’s what his grandfather used to say.

  “Go ahead and take the poles down to the dock, Greg. I’m gonna get the battery out of the car.”

  “Are you sure we ain’t gonna get into trouble about this?” asked Greg, his blue eyes worried under his shag of red hair.

  “Naw. They’ll never even find out. They ain’t supposed to be back until after dark anyway, and we’ll be done long before that.”

  “What if we actually catch one of them beasts?”

  It was Old Man Hassle that called them beasts, and Greg was at the age to believe everything the old caretaker said. Trey was pretty certain they wouldn’t see any catfish that big, but twenty-five or thirty pounders were fairly common.

  “Shit. If we bring one in, I’ll just tell the folks I was feeling better. I’ll tell them you and me went fishing from the dock. They won’t be real happy, but Dad will be so impressed with the fish, he’ll shut momma up.”

  Greg grinned from ear to ear, the dream of a huge fish and his best friend’s intelligence were going to make this a day to remember.

  They slid the yellow canoe from under the community dock and Trey pressed his sneaker against the foot pad that was the trolling motor’s accelerator. He had snuck it from the downstairs storeroom. Its very presence among old boxes and broken tools was the genesis for the idea to fish by the TNT dock. It was really too far to paddle, but the small motor would get them there without tiring their arms. It had been a gift from his grandfather to his father, and had yet to be used. Trey felt a sadness in that, and saw his use of the old motor as a way to be closer to his grandfather. In his heart, he knew the old man wouldn’t mind. He could almost see him now, standing in heaven, a martini grasped in his large hands looking down and wishing his grandson luck.

  The water had white caps, brackish two-foot swells that made the going slow and difficult in the small boat. Greg held onto the front with both hands, and by the curve of his back, Trey could see the other boy’s fear as he guided them around the larger clumps of weeds, both of them wary of getting them caught in the motor. Occasionally, they would pass a fish, held just under the water in the unrelenting grip of the weed, its eyes milky and rotten. The air was heavy with humidity, shirts and shorts already sopping with their sweat. The scent of honeysuckle drifted on the wind, mixing with the smell of rotting fish and the heady scent of the weed. Breathing was hard during any August in Tennessee, but upon the surface of the lake, it was near impossible as both boys alternately held their breaths against the foul smells of deadness and the sweetness of the surrounding forest.

  Both boys had grown up on the lake, their summers filled with days where shoes and shirts were left indoors as they tried to become one with the sun and the water. When they weren’t fishing o
r mowing lawns for some extra money, they were swimming around the community dock. Their favorite sport was underwater tag, spending more time holding their breath under than they did playing above. During those long games, Trey often imagined he knew how a fish felt, chased and cornered by a fisherman. He could hold his breath for over two minutes and would slither in and around the old wooden pilings, propelling himself from one end of the dock to the other in his efforts to escape the touch of his friends. The only greater feeling was when he shot to the surface for that breath of air that was required for another dive.

  Often, when his mother and father were fighting and he found himself down on the dock, crying and wishing to be someone else’s son, he would pray to the Gods of the fishes. He would beg to be released from his human bonds and become one with the water; a true fish. Their lives were simple and he envied the pleasure of the water, imagining himself too smart for the hook, plumbing the depths and coasting with the current. Trey had often thought, of all the fishes to choose from, that he would wish to become a catfish. Their lives were spent on the bottom, gliding and discovering the cast-off treasures of their human hunters. They were stately and moved with the purposefulness of kings. They lived long lives and grew to be immense. He remembered the picture he saw in the Guinness Book of World Records, the jaw of the fish large enough to swallow a small boy.

  And then there were the stories of Old Man Hassle. He wasn’t the only one who talked about giant fish, everyone had heard the rumors, but it was the old caretaker of the community dock who spoke of it more than anyone else. The lake was only about fifty years old. Still, divers would descend every few months to check the dam’s integrity, searching for any cracks or holes in the millions of tons of concrete that could threaten the greater part of Chattanooga, sitting as a magnificent southern gem, just downriver. During the years, old wrecks of cars and trains were dumped along the base to add to the dam’s width. These obtrusions were deadly to the divers, some becoming caught in the tangle of twisted metal as they inspected and pretended to be fishes. Even so, there was no end to divers who wanted to delve the lakes deepest depths. The pay was supposedly the highest of all and the list was long. Yet that list moved quickly as the divers went down, came back up and swore never to enter the lake again.