All posts by Walter Rogers

The White Turd by Walter Rogers

Chivo and I got into my Pontiac 6000, a car I named the Exxon Valdez because it leaked so much oil, and we headed west on Interstate 30 to Las Vegas Trail in west Fort Worth.

“Does Frank have the shit?” Chivo asked.

“He said he did. I hope so. But you know Frank.”

“Yeah, unfortunately.”

Chivo was a little nervous about our trip to Drug Land, which is any area of town where lowlifes, gangstas, white devils and the worst of women live, even though he knew kung fu. He could take nunchucks and do that Bruce Lee shit with them. But, for whatever reason, I never asked him how he learned how to do that shit. His two young boys took karate classes. Anytime they tried that black belt shit on me I’d just push them down onto the floor.

I wasn’t nervous at all going into America’s version of the dark jungle because I wanted some fucking weed and if Frank didn’t have it I’d be pissed off. I never had a problem of being scared. I was lousy at life so I didn’t give a fuck. It made no difference to me whether I lived or died. I just wanted to dull my senses from reality and to do that I needed some green.

Frank said he had a half an ounce he wanted to sell so he could use that money to pay for a whore who lived at his apartments, The Villas at Sierra Vista, a Section 8 dump, full of white and black trash and some illegals. The whore was a middle-aged black lady in an apartment in the building over from Frank’s. She’d given him head before for a couple of joints. He liked it. Now he wanted to score a touchdown by sticking his dick into her nappy haired pussy.

“Think we should stop at the 40 ouncer store before we hit Frank’s?”

“Yeah,” Chivo said. “I need some beer and smokes.”

I got off of I-30 and turned south on Las Vegas Trail. The ‘Lil’ Trail Store was on our right one block down. I pulled in and we got out and went inside. The place was a 7-Eleven wannabe but had shit in it for extremely poor people to buy by using food stamps and Texas’ CHIP cards. A coin operated laundromat, a MetroPCS store and a beauty supply place was in the same half block strip “mall”. I was at this place before when visiting Frank and some gone terribly wrong Mexican lady with sun weathered skin and jet black hair, making her half Spanish conquistador and half Native Indian, asked me for cash for her CHIP card. I asked her if I could buy smokes and beer with it.

“Si, si, si. Yes.”

I knew she was lying but it was a good deal. Pay her $30 bucks for a $50 dollar CHIP card. But you can’t buy jack shit with those cards unless you’re in a ‘hood store and ‘Lil’ Trail Store wasn’t ‘hood enough to do that. They were on the borderline of ‘hood and was really considered ‘hood lite. Cops prowled the area because of all of the Section 8 housing complexes around, and this being a predominantly white part of Fort Worth, and they knew to keep a look out on CHIP abuse at this convenience store. Now, if I’d been in the Stop Six area, east Fort Worth, on Riverside Drive, I would have bought the card no problem to help the illegal out because those wannabe 7-Elevens there wouldn’t question you buying 40 ouncers and a few packs of Basics with it and the cops in that part of town, where the Bloods and Crips entrenched themselves in the 1980s, resulting in fantastic murder scenes, including an after hours bar debacle that resulted in 8 dead on its floor, and made national news headlines for the brutality of the event, like a Wild West shootout from Fort Worth’s historic wild and wooly western past, that included visits by Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and their Hole In The Wall gang during the town’s Hell’s Half Acre days, had more important shit to worry about, like going home to their wive and kids.

Me and Chivo went through the store’s steel barred glass door. We headed to the back for our beer. I stopped to glance at the girly mags. One after another were the same thing as I flipped through them, girls laying on beds legs spread wide. I wasn’t impressed. I’d been married twice. And divorced twice. Women weren’t a mystery to me like they had been in my ’20s.

I used to go to the only porno mag store on the side of Fort Worth I lived in. It was located at Camp Bowie Blvd. and Lackland Road. The girly mags were in the back. It was embarrassing to go there. Every guy in the place knew why every other guy was there, to get images to jack off to. This was long before the Internet so you had to buy a hard copy back then. Basement dweller geeks today get to click a link to see fucking and sucking on PornTube but lonely guys in the old days had to own a cheap vehicle, called a shit ride, drive to an iffy part of town, park, walk into a shady place, be in the company of pussy-less guys just like you, women-less losers, and buy porno mags. And none of us got the lame, ad-laden glossies like Playboy, Oui or Penthouse, filled with wannabe intellectual articles nobody bothered to read. We reached for the plastic sealed packages that contained five dirty mags for 10 bucks, with titles like Swank, Juggs, High Ball, Slam-Bang, Gallery, Balling, Magnum and Barely Legal.

I put the Asian Sluts jack off mag back in its place and joined Chivo looking at the beer cooler. He grabbed some Miller High Life Tallboys. I got three 40s of Colt 45. We got the cheap cigs made from the tobacco that fell onto the cig factory floors, and sold for $2 a pack, with our beers and headed over to Frank’s place, a long touchdown pass down the road.

I pulled into the rundown apartments and some mixed race kids were running around. They were always running around. Riding bikes, chasing each other, kicking a soccer ball or shooting a basketball into a netless hoop. They yelled and screamed and jumped and ran around in circles. Just kids being kids.

No different than I was when me, my mother and sister lived in a Section 8 apartment off of Loop 820 and James Ave. in the mid to late 1960s. I was always outside playing with friends, riding bikes, going down to the creek on National Geographic like expeditions to find frogs, crawdads and minnows, playing football, having hide and seek tournaments and throwing baseballs around. When someone would use a stick and knocked a ball into an apartment window and it busted in many pieces of glass we’d tear ass and run like motherfuckers being chased down by a horror movie mass murderer. We’d stay away until the sun went down then slowly make our way back, carefully going around corners and staying close to the bushes, like we were Navy SEALs in Fallujah hunting down Hajiis, and sneak back to our single mom, no dad in sight, apartments.

We exited the Exxon Valdez. Frank’s place was right in front of us, which was very close to a dark green Dumpster. Frank’s apartment had a little cordoned off porch area, pretty high faluting for a Section 8 abode. Like any old ass apartments these musta been something back in the day, mapping in little courtyards for some of the units. A gay couple, I thought, probably lived here in the ’70s, until it all went to hell with white flight to the suburbs. There was a 10 gallon round plastic container without a top on it sitting in this concrete courtyard, along with ruined child’s toys, a beat to fuck doll of some kind and a tricycle that looked like it had been bumper thumped by Dale Earnhardt at the Daytona 500.

A big dead frog was at the top of the trash heap in the container. We inspected it further and found rotten food, a dead rat, chicken bones and ripped clothing. We stopped inspecting the shit at the dingy tighty whities. It stunk like someone’s death scene on Law & Order.

“Fuck, man, he’s 30 feet from a Dumpster and leaves this shit outside of his door?” Chivo wondered.

“C’mon,” I said. “We both know Frank. His white trashness far exceeds ours.”

Chivo knocked on the door. Frank’s brother, Lester, answered.

“What the FUCK do you two motherfuckers want?”

“We’re here to see Frank.”

“If I didn’t know who you were I woulda shot you both, god dammit.”

Lester was a fucking fruitcake. He worked down the road at the Lockheed Martin military industrial complex in their F-35 assembly plant. He was old as Bible people, complete with the white stringy beard and face crevices. He was the most hateful human being I’d ever met. He despised humanity. He’d work then come home and go into his room and watch tv and did absolutely nothing else, except walk a mile down the road to a grocery store and walk the mile back. He hated cars. He hated parades. He hated men, women and kids. He hated Christmas. He hated the Fourth of July. He hated trees. He hated dogs and cats. He hated Mickey Mouse. He hated cartoons. He hated Hot Wheels. He hated rainbows. He hated donuts. He hated crosswalks. He hated dolphins. He hated Cheerios. He even hated you, in absentia. His hate exceeded the national debt.

He had someone from his job pick him up each day to go to his job and supported Frank with the good salary he had at Fort Worth’s longtime defense contractor because Frank had no interest in working — and it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to know Frank wasn’t gonna get hired to do anything. He was the laziest motherfucking white person I’d ever known. He wasn’t dumb. He was just fucking lazy. A bum with a roof over his head.

Lester let us in. He was decked out in an ill fitting pair of white Fruit of the Looms and a food stained tee shirt. He legs were pasty white. Long hairs grew out of every orifice. He walked back to his room and slammed the door shut and turned up his tv’s sound. I could hear he was watching a Texas Rangers baseball game because of the play by play coming through the door.

“STRIKE THREE. HE’S OUT.”

“GOD DAMN,” Lester bitched. “THAT MOTHERFUCKER CAN’T HIT FOR SHIT!!!!”

Frank, a slob who weighed in at around 400 pounds on a 6 foot 6 frame, long beard and longer hair, was sitting on his filthy couch, surrounded by fast food bags, empty chip bags, empty plastic bottles, dead roaches, empty beer cans, an assortment of sundry papers, past due bills and fast food discounts, and everything else a scumbag would leave on the floor without picking it up. He was a hoarder of trash and not junk.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” he said to me, the usual smile on his face, a smile founded in “I don’t do shit to live a life of zero and I like it that way”.

“What else? A shit job, with an asshole boss I kill in my fantasies with a Dirty Harry handgun, that I need to forget with drugs.”

Chivo removed some dead insects and a McDonald’s Big Mac box from a chair and sat down. I brushed off some sickening shit on a recliner and rested my legs.

“Good thing Les doesn’t see you in HIS chair.”

“Fuck Les.”

“He’d kill you.”

“Yeah, he already said that. Tell him I’m ready for the other side.”

Chivo broke open a pack of cigs and popped open a beer and took a slug.

“Yeah, that hit the spot. That first one of the day always hits home.”

I twisted the cap on my 40 and did the Bukowski pull.

I half choked, said, with a pained expression, “Damn, that shit is nasty but it works fast to ease the pain.”

Frank changed the channel on his television. It was now on the History Channel. The show was yet another documentary on Hitler. Frank loved Adolph Hitler. He loved all the WWII shit on that channel. Since Les worked on war planes Frank was a fan of them. He’d point to the screen and tell us what plane was what.

“That one’s a bomber, it killed a lot of British. That one’s a fighter, it took down a lot of the long range bombers doing runs on German cities. Hitler had the best minds developing his aircraft. He was working on a UFO before the Russians got to him. They said he escaped in the one UFO that worked and landed in Argentina. He lived a long time after WWII.”

Frank liked the fact that Hitler killed a lot of Jews. I imagined he got that frame of mind from Lester. I thought, “Thank God Lester wasn’t a dictator.”

“So, do you got the shit?”

“Yeah, man. It’s right here.”

Frank reached under a messy couch cushion and pulled out a Glad sandwich bag half full of weed.

“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about,” Chivo chimed in before popping open another can of beer.

I reached into my back pocket and got out my Pulp Fiction BAD MOTHERFUCKER wallet. I took out some bills and handed them over to Frank. I took the plastic bag from him, opened it and immediately put it up to my nose and inhaled.

“Hmmm. Not bad. Better smelling than that dirt weed I got off of a scumbag dealer in that run down house near TCU last week. That shit was a rip off.”

Frank said the weed he had was from a wannabe rapper a few apartments down from his.

“The brothers always have better shit than Mexicans,” Chivo said.

Me and Chivo sat there watching Hitler drop bombs on England and drank. Frank smoked a cigarette.

“I gotta take a piss,” I said.

I went to Frank’s bathroom and shut the door. I stood over the toilet bowl and got my dick out and aimed it. That’s when I noticed a white turd slowly circling around in some Three Mile Island nuclear waste toilet water.

“Gawd damn! Fuck me. What the FUCK is that shit?” I thought.

I finished and hit the flusher. Nothing happened. I hit it again. Water didn’t move.

“This shit is sick. How these two lowlifes take a shit and not flush it?” I thought. “I knew Frank and Lester were nasty bastards but I didn’t know THIS. Man, I’m usually not bothered my disgusting shit perpetrated by fellow human beings but this take’s the cake and the prize. This turd must have been floating in that toilet bowl for months for it to have turned white. This is a goddamn outrage. It’s despicable. This is comic book villain shit.”

This macabre bathroom scene reminded me of a Chris Rock joke. He told it during one of his HBO specials. It was about the white people he was around as a kid.

He said, “I got bused to school into a poor white neighborhood. A neighborhood worse than the one I lived in. And everybody’s scared of black people, everybody’s scared of Puerto Ricans. Yo, there ain’t nothing scarier than poor white people… Yo, these muthafuckers, they lived under the trailer home, alright. They weren’t white trash, they’re like white toxic waste.”

I walked back to Lester’s recliner and sat down in total shock. Not much disgusts me but that vile white turd did. I couldn’t even look at Frank. I thought, “What the fuck is WRONG with you and Lester, man? You two are the most unbelievable pieces of shit in human history. Caligula would gladly invite you into his cauldron of debauchery.”

It was Bryan’s turn to take a leak. He came back a minute later and didn’t say squat but I could see he wanted to by the expression on his face. But you don’t say shit to someone who is providing you with weed in case it might offend them and then they won’t answer your calls when you’re itching for more.

We finished our beers.

“Well, we’re gonna go to my place and get fucked up. You gonna fuck that whore?”

Frank got up from his filthy couch and went over to his phone. He dialed and looked at us as we collected ourselves. He smiled that goofy smile of his when he was up to something disgusting and untoward.

“Hey, is Felicia there? Okay, I’ll wait.”

We stood there. I wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. That felonious white turd and Lester’s penchant for wanting to murder people had me in a hurry for the road home. I could tell Bryan felt the same way. He had already walked out onto the courtyard and was looking at the dead frog we’d seen earlier. He had picked up a stick and was examining it, flipping it on its back and looking at the decayed guts.

“Hey, Felicia, it’s Frank. Gotta time for me? Okay, I’ll come by tonite. See ya, honey.”

Frank hung up and smiled.

“Gettin’ laid, man.”

“Cool. Wear a condom so you don’t end up like Easy E, with the AIDS and shit.”

“I’m disease proof. I got a good build up from germs already.”

I chuckled, and thought, “No shit,” and went out the door.

In the car Bryan said, his voice weak, “You see that white turd in the toilet?”

“Yeah. I almost couldn’t take a piss staring down at it. My dick started to retreat up into my asshole.”

“It looked like a beached whale, all bloated and shit. I tried to flush it but the god damn toilet doesn’t work. Those two are really fucked up.”

I shook my head in agreement and turned the engine over. We got on the road and headed back to humanity.

Beauty Is In The Eye Of The Beholder by Walter Rogers

The well-dressed businessman who sat in the bar stool next to mine nudged me in the arm.

“Look at that one,” he said.

He pointed to a young, unescorted woman walking into The Wreck Room, Fort Worth’s best local and loudest local rock club. She wore two-sizes-too-small designer jeans, three inch high heels and a red halter top that showed off her ample bosom. She accessorized all of that with large, flashy earrings, 10 bracelets per wrist and an exposed pierced belly button. She had a tattoo of a rose with a knife slicing it in half on her upper arm.

“DAMN!! That is some fine lookin’ action right there, my man!! the guy said. “I want to stick my dick into that bitch’s pussy hole. I want to do a remake of Debbie Does Dallas with her. I video all of my sex with bitches using a hidden high def GoPro camera, too, and then upload that shit to TubePorn.com.”

He looked at the woman’s fine body up and down as she made her way across the low lit club to a table towards the back near the band stage where she seated herself.

Slow Roosevelt was the headliner, with Drowning Pool as the opening act, and a large crowd was gathering for two of Dallas-Fort Worth’s favorite local hard rock bands.

“There are some women who turn me on the exact second I see them and she’s definitely one of those,” he said. “Know what I mean?”

He nudged me in the arm again.

“You wanna fuck her, too, right? If not then you’re as gay as Elton John.”

“Yeah, she’s fucking beautiful, obviously,” I said. “But she’s too made up, too ‘perfect’ for my taste. I like women who have flaws. To get me interested in a woman I need to see a bent nose or hairy eyebrows. Maybe some crooked or, better yet, missing teeth. Short, stumpy legs would do me just fine, too. Acne scars, any scars anywhere on her body for that matter, are good. Personality disorders rule. Jail time is a real turn on. I’ll fuck an ex-con at the drop of leg chains. Anything wrong with a woman that disqualifies her from being Miss America or a supermodel is what I’m after. Those are the women I go for. Ones with questionable character or shady pasts. Bad reputations are fucking cool, too.”

The GQ hipster shook his head.

“Man, oh, man. I can’t believe what a fucked up dude you are. But I sorta suspected that kinda white trash redneck attitude would come from you after I told you I’d buy you a drink for being a True Detective fan like me and you go and order a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon instead of a Shiner Bock or Sam Adams. You know what I think? And I don’t mean to offend you, bro. But you’re a loser. You have bad taste in beer and even worst taste in women. Shit, you probably own a cat instead of a dog, for chrissakes. Look, no offense, but I’m gonna have to excuse myself now because that girl is driving me crazy. Look at me. I can’t take my eyes off of her. If I don’t get to fuck her tonight I’ll have to go on a killing spree in order to release the pent-up juices of my haywire libido. I’m gonna make my move right now. See ya later, pal.”

“Yeah, good luck. And thanks for the beer.”

He drained the last of his Shiner Bock and went over to the beauty queen. I watched him work his line of bullshit on her. He got to her table and said, standing over her back like Putin over Ukraine’s, “Hi, how are you doing? My name’s Jeff. You ‘come’ here often?”

He laughed. She didn’t.

He sat down next to her and whispered something into her ear. She got a disgusted look on her face and stood up and grabbed her purse. The Barbie Doll turned to walk out but Jeff grabbed her by the arm before she could get away from him.

“LET ME GO, ASSHOLE!!!”

He didn’t and pulled her back into the chair she was sitting in.

Everybody in the bar/rock club turned their attention away from the Dallas Stars-Detroit Red Wings hockey game playing on an HDTV in the front of the place to look at what was happening behind them.

Jeff told her, “C’mon on, baby, you know you want it good and nasty from a young, rich and cool guy like me. I know you wanna go for a ride in my 2014 Jaguar. Why else would you come into a place like this dressed like a two-bit hooker? I know you’re looking for some cheap sex and I’m just the guy who can give you that discount rate sex. Plus, I got a bottle full of Viagra at my condo. Look, I live just down the street at Museum Place. I got a waterbed. Dom Pérignon in the fridge. And, if you’re worried about herpes or the AIDS or other bugs, don’t worry. I have condoms. Trojans. Only the best for you, baby. Why don’t we leave this shit hole and get busy in the sack?”

People let out hoots and hollers. Some drunken barfly in a SLAYER t-shirt slurred, “Goooo feerriitt, baayybeeee!”

A brawny chick decked out in tattoos and cowboy boots, who was at least 50 years old, put down her bottle of Lone Star Beer and shouted, “Hey, stud muffin, take ME to your place. I know a few tricks that young thang hasn’t even learnt yet!!”

Everybody watching yelped and guffawed and snorted their drinks through their noses…except for Jeff and the Playboy Playmate of the Month he wanted to take home and get drunk on champagne with and fuck every which way, including upside down, all night long, on his waterbed.

He still had a firm grip on her arm.

“LET GO, I SAID!!!”

The Beauty was really pissed off at the Beast.

“NO FUCKING WAY, YOU CUNT!! We’re going to my place and start fucking!!”

Jeff was horny and determined to get his way. Any minute now I was expecting him to pull out a Billy Club and hit the looker over the head with it and grab a fistful of her hair and drag her to his cave.

The tension in the room had built into a fever pitch. It was like watching a reality TV show. Everyone was glued to what was gonna happen next to this quarreling sex charged couple.

With her free arm the sex pot reached into her purse and pulled out a Beretta .25 semi-auto handgun. I liked this bimbo’s choice of defense weapon. That make and model was an accurate and deadly piece. I had heard the Arlington, Texas, cops used them as ankle-holstered backups.

She stuck the gun, after releasing the safety, into Jeff’s face. His expression turned from anger at her reluctance to fuck him into sheer terror at the prospect of dying and soon. She pulled the gun’s trigger back and put it against Jeff’s forehead. Watching her handle that gun with such ease and confidence made me think she’d gotten very good firearms training and probably had had to pull out her piece many times before to get away from other “I won’t take no for an answer” assholes like Jeff.

“LET ME GO NOW (she moved the gun down to his crotch) OR I’LL BLOW OFF YOUR FUCKING DICK AND BALLS, MOTHERFUCKER!!!”

Jeff threw his hands up into the air and backed away.

“I’m cool, bitch. Real cool. Maybe you’d have better luck with that loser at the bar (he pointed at me). He loves psychotic women like you who’re one small misstep away from an insane asylum or Death Row.”

Jeff quickly left the bar, with the patrons shouting insults and jeering him all the way out.

“Don’t come back here you Wall Street prick!!!”

“We see you again and you’ll be leaving in a body bag, you faggot!!!”

“Afraid of a girl with a pea shooter? What a pussy!! Go back to Dallas, motherfucker!! Fort Worth is where the West begins and the East ends, douche bag!!”

The Amy Adams look-alike put her gun away and came over to the bar and sat down next to me. On closer inspection I noticed a pimple about to explode on her forehead and a brain surgery scar behind her left earlobe and an ankle bracelet. I told the bartender, One-Legged Karl, to give her whatever alcoholic beverage she wanted.

My future wife ordered a can of Miller High Life.

Cool Man by Walter Rogers

coolJimmy Hoerknel was a dump-pa-dy, de-dump-pa-dy kind of goofy stupid kind of guy with his large black framed, soda pop bottle thick eyeglasses crunched up real close to his squinting eyeballs, always running into things, and people, and always making a mess and fool of himself.

Everybody in town called him “boy” even though he was a grown white man.

“Hey, boy, get over here and pick up that trash for me.”

He did what he was told.

“Hey, boy, get lost. Grownups are talkin here.”

“Boy, you better get on home. Night’s a comin’. The mosquitoes will bite you all over.”

Jimmy just smiled like a dufus and nodded and did what he was told.

The brutally mean redneck kids always picked on him after they got out of school, finding him wondering the streets with nothing to do since he was unemployable, fired from the local feed store because he kept dropping bags of dog food, spilling the pellets all over the place and causing Mrs. Spicer to take a bad fall, breaking her ankle, having the feed store owner pay for her medical treatment.

“Hey, Jimmy, you’re a retard. You’re fired.”

The local the kids piled on.

“Retard! Retard! Retard!”

They’d throw rocks at him and run away, laughing like hyenas.

The girls were even worse than the school boys. They called him a faggot.

“You’re gay. You’ll never get pussy, you fat idiot.”

Some would raise their skirts and show him their panties.

“You’ll never stick your tiny dick into me, you moron.”

He’d look down at the street, avoiding looking at their undergarments, waiting for them to leave.

“You got boogers hangin’ out of your nose. GROSS!”

They’d laugh and skip on down the street, happy at themselves for demeaning a mentally challenged man.

Jimmy always waited patiently as they insulted him, taking it with that big dumb smile on his face, showing off his yellowed and missing teeth, from being punched for no reason at times by the bigger high school boys who played on the football team.

The folks in Cool, Texas, got quite a knee-slappin’ time from watching ol’ porky dorky Jimmy Hoerknel walk his way around the small, sleepy town between Mineral Wells and Weatherford, both bigger towns with their own dump-pa-dy dumps like Jimmy Hoerknel, but not like this Jimmy Hoerknel because this Jimmy Hoerknel, the absolute original of the species known as rural town nerd dufus, went off and did something real strange one night that nobody ever knew about, except the whole town knew, as did the Parker County Sheriff’s Department, and all those media people from those cable TV news shows like The O’Reilly Factor and Anderson Cooper 360. They rushed to Cool and set up their TV cameras and their reporters and started asking the dumbfounded local yokels why such a horrible thing could happen in such a seemingly nice, quiet place like this.

But nobody bothered to ask dump-pa-dy dump Jimmy Hoerknel, the one person with the only expert opinion on what happened to Jed and Nancy Thomson, that quiet middle-aged couple with their three children off at college, two at Tarleton State University and one at Dallas Baptist University.

The Thomson couple lived in the double-wide mobile home that sat right off of Farm to Market Road 113. One night they got chopped up into itty-bitty tiny pieces that were scattered about for their one goat and several roosters and chickens to play with and consume while with their two cows and one bull calmly chomped on hay before a nearby neighbor caught wind of something smelling awful, figuring it was yet another dead cow that was mutilated by aliens, what with all the UFO sightings he’d heard from hushed conversations with ranchers, who lost livestock in weird ways, at the local breakfast place every Saturday morning that served damn good gravy and biscuits with Texas toast and delicious slices of ham.

The Thomson’s closest neighbor, the kindly rancher Fred Lyle, ventured over to the Thomson’s place and found a foot and the top half of a head with a nose half attached near the couple’s septic tank.

He quickly got into his pickup truck and scooted on over to the Mineral Wells newspaper’s office after realizing the Parker County Sheriff wasn’t in town and informed its new and green around the ears, TCU-educated editor, Cain Fenner, that he had seen many scattered and bloody body parts that were strewn about the Thomson’s place. Cain gave old Fred, sweat droplets all over his head and running down his many wrinkles making it look like a bunch of overflowing creeks, a hanky to wipe his face and a glass of iced tea, seeing that this was the middle of July and it hadn’t gotten below 100 during the day for the past two weeks.

Cain used his cellphone to call for Parker County Sheriff Tommy Johnson. His secretary answered the call and informed Cain that the Sheriff was at lunch with some politicians buying them chicken fried steak dinners at the Weatherford Downtown Cafe in an effort to woo their support for an addition to his jail house, which would take a property tax increase for funding, which was always a tough sell in small Texas towns like Cool.

“We got some body parts all over the place out here at the Thomson’s,” Cain informed the secretary, her name was Myrtle, and Cain heard a big gulp at the other end, and he said, “If you don’t mind telling Sheriff Noonan about this situation we’d appreciate it. Seems some animals are feeding themselves with those body parts and the evidence of who the victim or victims are is disappearing as we speak.”

Cain heard Myrtle scream, “Oh, Lord Jesus”, before the phone went dead. He figured he’d better go out to the Thomson place and see what had taken place, making doubly sure his Nikon D700 digital SLR had a charged up battery and an extra SDHX card before locking the newspaper office’s only door behind him.

Cain followed Fred’s ramshackle 1965 Chevy pickup out to Farm to Market Road 113, passing a field of huge wind turbines that slowly circled the air like white plastic dinner knives cutting holes in the clear blue sky. After traveling a couple of miles down the dusty road he saw the white paneled double-wide mobile home the Thomson’s. The red markings spewed onto its outside paneling must have been the victim’s blood haphazardly splattered about by the frenzied killer and not house paint, Cain thought, because these strange markings were way too abstract and surreal in their design for simple people like the Thomson’s to like or appreciate.

“Looks like a Jackson Pollock painting to me,” Cain thought.

As Fred parked his pickup along the roadside Cain drove his 2003 Honda Civic down the Thomson’s driveway, really it was a gravel way, and he heard a crunching noise underneath his tires not at all like gravel and figured he’d for sure ran over a bone of some magnitude, maybe a pelvis. Cain stopped and got out of his car and immediately pinched his nose shut and stood there in awe, slowly surveying the macabre scene, taking in all of the ripped up body parts littering their yard.

Fred poked a stick at a mangy hound dog that had showed up from behind the couple’s cow pen in an attempt to make the dumb thing drop an ear firmly entrenched in its mouth.

“Here, dog, let that be,” Fred barked.

He poked its side a couple more times but the dog stood his ground, growling. Fred got flustered and finally whacked the dog upside its head. The mutt let out an angry yelp like it didn’t want to lose such a tasty morsel but another head smack on its snout by Fred’s thick switch made it open its mouth and let go of the ear, the bloody pulp of flesh falling out of its mouth. Fred picked it up and dropped it into one of the many pockets in his overalls.

“I’ll give this here piece of evidence to Sheriff Noonan personally,” Fred told Cain.

Cain took a photo of Fred holding the ear thinking it’d make a good front page picture and might just get picked up by the national news website services, like the Huffington Post or Fox News, thinking this awful story might be his big break into the big time and getting himself out of such a typical Texas one stop sign town where the paper had more ads for feed stores and gun shows in Fort Worth than actual news since nothing ever happened except for church announcements, funerals and which high school students were taking the cows they had raised from birth to the Fort Worth Stock Show, with the aging and dwindling population barely capable of reading above a 4th grade level.

“I can’t be in this shitty hick hole my whole life,” Cain thought. “A spot at the Dallas Morning News could catapult me into writing stories that could win me a Pulitzer Prize and then I’m on to bigger and better things.”

Cain smiled after taking the photo and patted Fred on the shoulder.

“This must be hard on an old man like you, seeing all of this mayhem out here where nothing bad like this ever happens.”

Fred shook his head.

“Oh, you young fella don’t know a damn thing,” Fred said in his slow Texas drawl. “I served in the Army in World War II and I saw my men blown to bits, much smaller pieces than these here. My soldiers were trying to say things to me before they died even though their heads weren’t attached to the rest of ’em after stepping on land mines when we stormed the beaches in Normandy. I’ve seen the worst. That Saving Private Ryan movie got real close to it but not close enough. This here ain’t nothin’ to me. Some damn fool got mad at the Thomson’s and did what evil thing was inside of him; took out his frustration on’em, you might say. Probably just over their bull somehow getting off the property and knocking down someone’s fence to go hump a neighbor’s cow. People do stupid stuff like that all the time in Texas.”

With that Fred got back into his squeaky old pickup truck and drove off but took the time to throw the ear out of his hand, tossing it at Cain’s feet in disgust.

“Take a photo of that, paper boy. Maybe it’ll get you more advertisements for hearing aids.”

Before Cain could bend over to pick it up the mangy dog, still there with blood and hunger on its mind, pounced on it and swallowed it whole.

“You dumb ass hound dog!” Cain shouted.

The dog growled angrily and bared its blood stained teeth.

But he had a quick shutter finger to capture a photo of the dog swallowing the ear.

Then Cain reared back and kicked the dog right in its ass with the sharp end of his cowboy boot and it finally ran off, yelping the whole way, headed straight for a torn up arm completely separated from one of the Thomson’s shoulder blades.

Cain felt like walking around in the carnage taking more photographs but decided it would probably be better to let Sheriff Noonan and his deputies survey the grounds because he didn’t want to accidentally disturb the ape shit crime scene. So he leaned against his car and began snapping off pictures of the blood stained mobile home. He also got shots of the family’s goat and some coyotes who had showed up, all of them fighting over lips and toes and fingers and legs and feet, and the goat, a scrawny beast, its hide tugged snug around its ribs and a long, scraggly goatee that gave it some cherished character, chewing slowly on a clump of what looked like a piece of scalp with bleached blonde human hair, obviously the wife’s.

Sheriff Noonan arrived with several of his deputies, followed by an ambulance, a few minutes later. The tall Texan got out of his squad car, looked all around and started shaking his head and said to Cain, who had a voice recorder in hand, “This is shame. A god damned shame. We’re gonna catch the son of a bitch who did this for sure and we will personally watch him put to sleep on death row down in Huntsville or else just shoot the son of the bitch on site.”

He ordered his men into position and they carried out their plan, chasing away, and sometimes shooting the evidence eating coyotes. He didn’t bother putting a 9mm bullet into the goat’s skull, which had now started chewing slowly away on what appeared to be a thigh bone.

“I can’t very well shoot their personal property,” he said.

One deputy walked around and shot digital video of all the body parts where they were left by the animals or by whoever did this horrible deed. Some parts were chewed into literal pulp by the hungry beasts and would never be identified as to what they were or whose body it they had belonged to. All the parts, once documented by digital video, were carefully picked up and placed inside evidence bags.

Forensic personnel came along and scraped dried blood samples off of the mobile home, with one guy dusting spots on the mobile home with a brush in hopes of finding usable fingerprints.

The deputies that ventured into the mobile home came right back out shaking their heads, with a few of them puking up their Blue Plate Special lunches.

“I’ve seen photos of the Manson family murders no one has ever seen and, Jesus H. Christ, this is helluva lot worse than that,” one of them told Cain.

A couple of the deputies walked over to a neighboring field and started crying because they were so disturbed by it all. Cain made sure he got photographs of them balling their eyes out but Sherriff Noonan walked over to him and knocked his camera out of his hand, saying, “If I see a photograph in your fucking newspaper of one my deputies crying I will throw your ass in jail and let you rot in there for a week, you fuckin’ soulless cocksucker.”

Later, as the day wore on, Sheriff Noonan stood there at the roadside scratchin’ his bald head answering questions asked by a gathering media horde, pleading with the TV folks to not shoot video of the body parts and to keep their descriptions of the murder scene to a minimum seeing that this story would fall nicely into the 6 O’clock newscast’s time slot, telling the TV crews he didn’t want anybody, especially parents’ children, upchucking their suppers and having God who knows what kind of nightmares.

Outrage filled the community as the news spread that Jed and Nancy Thomson had met their end in a most gruesome way, all chopped up like in a supermarket meat grinder and how it would be impossible for anybody to get to pay the dead couple decent last rites at the memorial and funeral because both caskets would be closed.

Just ain’t right to die like that, the town’s people told each other over and over all week long. They all said the same thing to those nicely dressed up TV news people from Dallas, Atlanta, New York City and Los Angeles.

Sheriff Noonan quickly enough got sick and tired of the questions from the likes of Wolf Blitzer, Megan Kelly and Nancy Grace and barred the media from his office and sent out his department’s statements on the unsolved case through a Sheriff’s office spokesperson. He wasn’t saying much in his statements anyway, what with there being practically no clues to disclose and really nothing else to say except to comment that the killer would be brought to justice, no matter how long it took to find the sick son of a bitch.

A reward of $10,000 for any information that led to arrests and convictions was started at the local bank in Weatherford for the person, or persons, who did this inhumane crime but nobody had yet showed up to collect that money and in a week’s time things began to simmer down, the mystery of who had killed the Thomson’s at a dead standstill, with Sheriff Noonan putting the case file into a filing cabinet full of unsolved crimes, frustrated at the lack of clues of who had killed one of Cool’s sweetest couples.

The TV news people soon got wind of a bigger, better story near Broomfield, Colorado, where a student had gone insane and shot a bunch of classmates and several teachers to death before turning the weapon on himself.

So funny looking, loony and goofy Jimmy Hoerknel, the town clown, with food crumbs always hanging off of his lips, or cheeks, or chin, the stupid fat boy without a lick of sense, even though he was a grown man in his mid-40s, stood around looking dumb as usual, smiling, waving and saying hello to the same people who had laughed in his face for all of his years growing up in Cool, Texas, always keeping to himself, friendless, and walking around the streets getting more insults shouted his way by everyone, while late at night nobody would see him and nobody gave a shit where he was, or what he was doing, but maybe they had better start to.

Walter Rogers is a white trash Texas redneck whose grandfather, after emigrating from Russia in the hopes of becoming a championship boxer, worked for the North Side mob in Chicago in the 1950s. Walter’s favorite authors are Charles Bukowski, Richard Brautigan, Franz Kafka, Ferdinand Celine, Knut Hamsun, Kurt Vonnegut and Friedrich Nietzsche, among many others. He’s twice divorced and lives alone with his cat, Oscar, in Fort Worth, where he was born in 1960. He says, and his friends agree, that the two best lines he ever wrote were, “Feminism stops at heavy lifting,” and “Humanity is an ongoing parade of relentless motherfuckers.” Besides writing, Walter enjoys photography and uses a Nikon D700 and various Nikkor lenses. He sold a photo to NEW YORK MAGAZINE for a cover shot in 2008.