Ramble, rant or reminisce, this is an artist’s opportunity to pen their own Clash article.
This issue, Micah P. Hinson’s short story of hillbillies, hatred and violence: The Vengeance In Me.
“FAGGOT!”
the red texas sun felt like fire on my skin.
“FAGGOT! CAT GOT YOUR TONGUE?!”
he had on a white baseball cap, leaning sideways, arms outstretched, out the window of what looked like his pal’s state-of-the-art, Ford truck F-150 with a V-8 HEMI engine under the hood, bursting fire: a bomb ready to wobble the desert on its side.
either it was the intolerable, diseased sun, or simply the fact that once affording and buying my blue and tan motor-scooter, these swine, or at least swine of the same sort, had 1) thrown chewing tobacco at me from a moving vehicle, oddly enough a Ford F-150, but black. well knowing that my beast could only get to thrillingly amazing speeds of 35MPH, 40MPH with little to no wind resistance, i could not catch them: the bastards, or 2) tailed like a backwoods cop after a rape candidate, passed, flipped off, and cut off like a rotten civil war leg, or 3) leaped at by a madman, coming violently, directly out of his car to tackle my silly, white ass: all of this because i once afforded and bought my blue and tan motor-scooter.
“FAGGOT, YOU LISTENING TO ME?!?”
and then the tide rose.
the fire was aflame inside of my very being. every ounce of my country soul began to boil to great, unnerving, and distorted heights. this hammer-headed jock was to not get away, not without a taste of my blazing ambition tuned with vigilante, chickasaw blood.
the key-ring slid out of my chino pants quite easily, eyes and ears still about face, not even to get a hint that i was paying attention to this drooling excuse. the keys fit nicely between my fingers on my left hand, as the left hand was closer to this goon’s solid red Ford F-150.
he was mine.
he knew not my rage.
he knew not my discontent for society.
he knew not my complete and udder disregard for anything socially sanitary and acceptable.
he was soon to be knowing and, yes, sir, that furry bastard was soon to understand.
there i was, sun skin, atop my motor-scooter; white cap was to my left in the turning lane. i was situated at his passenger’s back right side, and, voila, the light turns green.
green: a perfect shape of justice.
i pulled the gas back.
my boemuth began to hum.
the keyed-hand out, i let it simply and beautifully run down, carve gracefully, the entire side of the Ford, tail to tit, feeling the paint ripple off the body and onto my hand. i could smell, hear, by God, feel the sweet smell of vigilante sweat pouring from my existence out there in the teeming desert wind.
the white hat must have seen me trickle off, as his green light of redemption had not changed, and it was then, i believe, he knew that the shit was on.
the fire was blazing.
the vengeance was mine and, me, i took it.
the red beast pushed sounds of rubber skidding off of melting Texas streets.
from the sound alone i knew what i had on my hands.
it was on.
the adventure was mine.
and then there: he was blaring behind me. had he not thought of retribution? chaos? madness? ultra-violence?
no.
but yes, i had, my friends.
yes, i had.
i knew right after the light, being that i had stumbled through the grand key city for the majority of my physical existence on this green ball, that there would be a pawn shop right after the light to my left.
i would pass this, pushing the small 50cc engine under my testicles to its fullest existent, and knowing this would not be much, i jumped quickly into the turning lane, getting swiftly behind a car, facing me in the turning lane, knowing well, mister HEMI and company would have much difficulty doing the same.
i was correct in this observation: saved me a few seconds, a sacred few seconds that i needed.
right after the pawn shop would be a small cross street that would lead me to smaller roads, even smaller alleyways. the red mountain would be at a sure disadvantage when it came to this particular terrain.
with a sudden turn left into the side street, a car was pulling out from their driveway, turning into me.
brilliant.
i whipped around them, knowing full well that this would find irritation and discontent in my followers, as they were, i imagine, forced to wait a few more vital seconds in them apprehending and castrating me and castration was not in my future. not on that day.
pushing her as hard as i could, the blue boemoth took its next right. glancing in my rearview mirror, fearing they would behind me, but no, where were they?
wait…
WAIT!
THERE IT WAS!
hastily and violently making that same right!
BUT WHAT IS THIS?
is that red mountain hopping out of control?
YES, by God!
as the grand, red mountain turned, it whirled and overcorrected too far to the right and SLAM smashed head on, full goddamned bore into a lightpost!
and with a large, glorious POOF of smoke whipping out of the windows, i knew then that revenge was mine. i could see them in my mind, faces burnt with the hot, torture of a thousand-mile-an-hour airbag.
revenge tasted like sweet honey on the roof of my mouth.
and i am rest assured, this is one faggot they with soon not forget:
’round every corner, in every small town they drive through, they will fear the horn-rimmed, cigarette smoker. shivering to their very core every time they see a motor-scooter. they will see hoards of demons riding at them with the fires of hell within their fists in their dreams.
and my face will be their faces.
hell’s fire will be mine.
