this one is really short and frankly unfinished, but i couldnt bring myself to fix it. ill probably rewrite it at some point. real ones get the reference in here
I don’t like to beat up my boys very often, but sometimes they deserve it. Just this morning one of ‘em, Beau Hutcherson, smartest of my boys by far, knocked on my trailer door talkin’ some,
“Ma’am, you gotta come break up this fight!”
It’s always a fight with these ones. They’re grown men I tell ya, but they sure don’t act like it. One small issue ends up becoming a brawl, then I gotta come out in my leisure clothes and beat some sense into them. Those boys quieted right down soon as they saw me. Two in the middle, Richard (Rick or Dick, depends on how much you like him), and a younger boy Aaron look up at me, bruised up and dirty. I gave them a moment to straighten out and fess up, but they just stared at me with guilty dog eyes.
“So what’s goin’ on here?” I folded my arms, giving them a nasty stink eye. The taller one, Aaron, goes bright red. Almost as red as the smudged blood on his knuckles.
“This one,” Rick jabs his thumb at the other, “was talkin’ shit at me.”
“You started it!” Aaron spits at him, squinting real hard. He’s got glasses, but I assumed they were either broken or being held by someone in the crowd.
“I did not!”
“You were flirting with me and I politely turned you down!” Aaron’s voice got all squeaky and defensive. I don’t like to pry in on their business, just as they don’t pry on mine, but I suspect something’s up with those two. That’s not important, though. what’s important is that I gave them each a swift slap to the cheek and the usual talk. Just some, “You boys need to talk to one another, i’ve had enough of this fighting business.” They’ve heard it at least a million times, but it never sticks for whatever reason.
I love each and every one of them to death but unfortunately they’re the reason I’m so pissy this fine morning. I just sent them off to be cleaned and patched up and hid back in my trailer. Now I’m pouring myself a glass of wine (that nobody knows about) and trying my hardest not to have myself a damn conniption. Just the night before we set up camp for the foreseeable future which was migraine-inducing in-and-of itself. (The one thing I miss the most before all this is medicine. Shit’s damn near impossible to come across these days, and even if you find a hospital or a pharmacy, it’s all expired or contaminated.) Now, our usual procedure is to find a good, hidden location (usually a ghost town) and anchor all the trailers. Our trailers are like the wooden Oregon trail wagons of the modern age. Most of us have common moving trailers, but about a year ago, we got lucky and found a whole RV. We had to take care of the previous inhabitants, but that was anything we couldn’t handle. Now its being hauled by our two strongest horses and housing three of my men. Anchoring these things usually isnt any trouble, but we had just been trekking for nearly a month straight at that point. One mistake piled onto another, and we ended up getting robbed in the middle of the night. One of those fools locked the dogs in with him. We got some pretty valuable loot taken, but thankfully a day or so later two of my boys came back with the perpetrators. They’ll be keeping our beloved guard dogs fed for a few days.
The commotion outside is finally starting to die down. Today is supposed to be an easy day, bit of time to unwind and settle in. the wine is taking its sweet time to soak into my system, but the darkness of my trailer helps the oncoming migraine trying to settle in my skull. The only things I plan on doing today are washing up and taking my horse on a nice ride. I don’t get many quiet moments like this. I quite like it. My life’s so full of hustle and bustle and gunshots and screaming that the peace between seems like a good dream that I can hardly remember. After long enough, that sweet, soft buzz of wine drunkness sets in. I take the last sip and set the glass aside. It’s time to get up. I smooch off my fur-topped bed and take off my short, replacing them with big, comfortable sweatpants. I don’t bother changing into a more decent shirt. My boys respect me enough to keep their eyes to themselves. I toss on my worn-down boots and lock my trailer behind me.
“Mornin’ Lucille,” a big, burly guy greets me soon as a step outside. Mr. Butch Strauss looks a lot scarier than he actually is. He’s tall as all hell and equally ripped, but he’s a sweetheart. A lot more respectful than the rest. I attribute it to his age. I don’t know the exact number, but he looks old enough to be my dad. Which is also why I let the first-name-calling slide.
“Mornin’ Butch. How’re you holdin’ up?”
“Well enough, ma’am. Did you eat? I didn’t see you this morning.”
“Yeah, don’t worry about it. Had one of the other boys bring me some.” Butch just nods at the reassurance and we part ways. A few others stop me, which is to be expected, but it’s still mildly irritating. Once they’re out of my hair, though, I finally get the chance to wash it (another thing I miss is proper hair-washing supplies). I step down to the nearby river (colorado river, if I had to guess, though I don’t think were in the state) and kick off my boots. I strip down to my undergarments, not trusting those idiots to not peep, and step into the cold water. I suck in a breath between my teeth, but push on. A little cold water ain’t hurt nobody. I tread forward until the water tucks under my arms and I can find a stable foothold. The various decorations adoring my one long loc weigh it down behind me. Its gotta be three and half, four feet by now. Been growing it for years. I tug at it, pulling the sharp canine tooth into my hand. Im not sure what kind of animal it used to belong to. Found its skull on a scavenging trip. Took a few of its other teeth and figure they’d make pretty decorations. It’s become more useful than I thought, though. I’ve killed a few people with it. It’s a brutal weapon too, not nearly sharp enough to kill in one blow. I scrape a bit of dried blood off of it with my nail. I just need a nice soak in the water. Too much blood and agony on me.
As the grime slowly erodes away, I take a soft but deep breath. The scenery is real pretty. The water’s twinkling and frigid, and mumbling softly as it lazily pours through the rocks. Just across the way is a green field. there’s probably bees and bugs humming away in the brush. Or maybe rabbits that would make a filling lunch. I often wonder what animals think about the recent passing of civil society. Did they even notice? They most definitely noticed the lack of cars, and the freshening of the air. Some have to have seen the bombs drop and maybe even been affected by the fallout. But some, like the ones living out here, might not even know anything has changed. I don’t think animals pass down stories of naked apes that destroyed their homes. And how those dangerous, two-legged beasts caused their own destruction. I envy them sometimes. I enjoy my productive consciousness, but sometimes I wish it were easier. That all I had to worry about was getting my next meal and reproducing. Or maybe I don’t. Complication is what makes life interesting. If it was the same thing over and over, it would be excruciating, would it not? Fighting keeps you going, it makes you—
“Ow!” A rock slammed into my foot.
So much for quiet.