It Shore Will

For the 145th time in a row, the South fails to rise again.

Cleetus von Boonies (of the Toad Suck, Arkansas von Boonies) looks up from his meth cooking rig at his common-law wife of four years, Vera. "We gonna rise this year?" he asks. "Ain't it about time?"

"Can't. Ain't got no money for th' ammo," she says, a broken cigarette dangling from the corner of her lip, the ashes dropping into the hair of the dulled-eyed infant at her hip. His diapers are full, stained and squish when he moves, and a kool-aid mustache is present on his upper lip, where it's been for the last four days. "Austin's gotta get his shots. An' Cleon and Darla need new shoes."

Cleetus gets up and goes to the dirty front window of the double-wide they share, surveying the weedy wasteland of dead appliances and rusty vehicles on blocks. He disinterestedly follows the death-struggles of a blue jay, drowning in a barrel of antifreeze and used motor oil. Pervis and Bucephalus, their oldest, curiously prod at the dying bird with a stick, studying it with dead cow eyes. "It's nearbouts time," he whispers, absently stroking the copy of The Turner Diaries he keeps in his back pocket at all times as he stares at a glorious vista only his eyes can see. "It's gotta be nearbouts time. When Johnny Reb sets his mind to something, you best get outta his way."

1. Ayup.
2. And somehow, the south does rise. With hilarious results.
3. Oh no, someone called the cops on his meth operation! Cleetus runs!
4. Three thousand years later, the south is finally on the verge of rising. Let's go there now!
5. I feel..unclean for writing this...

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