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Description
"Sight Unseen"
Charlie Hickerson
Stuart liked to believe he lived in the lap of luxury when in reality he lived in the faux-leather seat of a John Deere. He began his day with a pinch between the gum and the cheek and an All- Star breakfast courtesy of Waffle House. Stuart had to attend the neighboring Waffle House of Timber Wolf County because he was banned from his hometown grease factory. The reason behind Stuart's expulsion was his nasty habit of bringing spiked Sun-Drop to complement his grease feast. Traveling along the dusty road, Stuart could be heard almost a mile away, with the blast of Lynyrd Skynyrd blaring and a muffler that sounded like a dying pig making his presence very evident. As Stuart pulled into the breakfast emporium that is Waffle House, he could feel a slight tension in the air. It was the same tension one feels right before a brawl or a NASCAR race. Stuart expertly prepared his adult beverage in the parking lot. Now he was ready for a heavenly meal of fluffy eggs, crispy toast, runny grits, and last but certainly not least, a cooked-to-perfection, maple-syrup-laden waffle.
CLING! Stuart swung the fine establishment's door open only to find thirty disgusting faces glaring back at him. Stuart took a familiar counter stool.
"The usual?" inquired a sweaty middle-aged man with teeth that looked directly imported from Britain. "Yeah," mumbled Stuart. Just as Stuart dug into his glorious breakfast, he felt hot breath on his neck and shifted his eyes to see a greasy hand on his shoulder. Stuart swiveled around in his barstool and was face to face with a man of about forty-five, his jaw full of chewing tobacco. His stained wife-beater did not entirely contain his massive stomach and his teeth looked like the remains of World War III.
"You wouldn't happen to be Gerald Mooneyham's boy, would ya?"
"Who wants to know?" Stuart hadn't seen his daddy since that last visiting day at Brushy Mountain many years ago. A freak accident in the prison welding shop had taken both guards and prisoners by surprise and during the pandemonium Gerald had managed to escape. Gerald wasn't good about keeping in touch. "An old friend of his sent me. Thought you might be lookin' to make some fast cash." the man said with a toothless grin. Stuart could smell the Redman on his breath as he spoke.
"Depends," muttered Stuart half interested. Stuart didn't trust anyone who was still friends with his daddy, but he needed money..
"You know much about moonshine, son?" asked his potential employer. "Enough." Stuart was working hard to keep up his Clint Eastwood facade.
"The name's Johnboy." He held out one of his greasy mitts for a handshake but Stuart declined. "Why don't you come with me to my office where we can do proper business?" Johnboy's words slithered out of his mouth like a snake escaping from a grubby hole. "It ain't far." He led the way to the parking lot, motioning for Stuart to follow.
As far as miserable trucks went, Johnboy's vehicle gave Stuart's a run for its money. The bed was completely rusted throughout, with the ancient seats' exposed rusty springs making the passenger's sitting experience less than desirable. On the journey to his "office," Johnboy managed to annihilate four squirrels and one possum, the last of which he considered doubling back for. The dirt road wound through the country side and made Stuart feel as though he would see his Waffle House breakfast for a second time.
The pair were soon hidden on a remote mountain top of the Smokies, when Johnboy slammed on the brakes of the Chevy. A cabin came into view. It was a level beyond rustic - namely dilapidated. A creek trickled nearby with a worn footpath following it. Behind the cabin stood an outhouse, and in the clearing a collection of vehicles in various stages of disrepair some still serviceable and some on concrete blocks. Johnboy motioned Stuart to the cabin. As Stuart stumbled up the hazardous steps of the abode, there was that same feeling in the air that he had sensed earlier.
Creeeeeek. Stuart opened the ancient door and immediately gasped. The cabin's interior was filled entirely with money. Stacks of all denominations formed makeshift tables and footstools. Beyond the money room, Stuart could see a narrow hallway with two doors. Stuart cautiously stepped over the stacks of currency and proceeded to knock on the door simply labeled Chief.
"Open it there, boy." A smooth Cajun voice resided on the other side of the door. Stuart did as instructed and found himself in the presence of a blind man, in a white suit complete with
Charlie Hickerson
Stuart liked to believe he lived in the lap of luxury when in reality he lived in the faux-leather seat of a John Deere. He began his day with a pinch between the gum and the cheek and an All- Star breakfast courtesy of Waffle House. Stuart had to attend the neighboring Waffle House of Timber Wolf County because he was banned from his hometown grease factory. The reason behind Stuart's expulsion was his nasty habit of bringing spiked Sun-Drop to complement his grease feast. Traveling along the dusty road, Stuart could be heard almost a mile away, with the blast of Lynyrd Skynyrd blaring and a muffler that sounded like a dying pig making his presence very evident. As Stuart pulled into the breakfast emporium that is Waffle House, he could feel a slight tension in the air. It was the same tension one feels right before a brawl or a NASCAR race. Stuart expertly prepared his adult beverage in the parking lot. Now he was ready for a heavenly meal of fluffy eggs, crispy toast, runny grits, and last but certainly not least, a cooked-to-perfection, maple-syrup-laden waffle.
CLING! Stuart swung the fine establishment's door open only to find thirty disgusting faces glaring back at him. Stuart took a familiar counter stool.
"The usual?" inquired a sweaty middle-aged man with teeth that looked directly imported from Britain. "Yeah," mumbled Stuart. Just as Stuart dug into his glorious breakfast, he felt hot breath on his neck and shifted his eyes to see a greasy hand on his shoulder. Stuart swiveled around in his barstool and was face to face with a man of about forty-five, his jaw full of chewing tobacco. His stained wife-beater did not entirely contain his massive stomach and his teeth looked like the remains of World War III.
"You wouldn't happen to be Gerald Mooneyham's boy, would ya?"
"Who wants to know?" Stuart hadn't seen his daddy since that last visiting day at Brushy Mountain many years ago. A freak accident in the prison welding shop had taken both guards and prisoners by surprise and during the pandemonium Gerald had managed to escape. Gerald wasn't good about keeping in touch. "An old friend of his sent me. Thought you might be lookin' to make some fast cash." the man said with a toothless grin. Stuart could smell the Redman on his breath as he spoke.
"Depends," muttered Stuart half interested. Stuart didn't trust anyone who was still friends with his daddy, but he needed money..
"You know much about moonshine, son?" asked his potential employer. "Enough." Stuart was working hard to keep up his Clint Eastwood facade.
"The name's Johnboy." He held out one of his greasy mitts for a handshake but Stuart declined. "Why don't you come with me to my office where we can do proper business?" Johnboy's words slithered out of his mouth like a snake escaping from a grubby hole. "It ain't far." He led the way to the parking lot, motioning for Stuart to follow.
As far as miserable trucks went, Johnboy's vehicle gave Stuart's a run for its money. The bed was completely rusted throughout, with the ancient seats' exposed rusty springs making the passenger's sitting experience less than desirable. On the journey to his "office," Johnboy managed to annihilate four squirrels and one possum, the last of which he considered doubling back for. The dirt road wound through the country side and made Stuart feel as though he would see his Waffle House breakfast for a second time.
The pair were soon hidden on a remote mountain top of the Smokies, when Johnboy slammed on the brakes of the Chevy. A cabin came into view. It was a level beyond rustic - namely dilapidated. A creek trickled nearby with a worn footpath following it. Behind the cabin stood an outhouse, and in the clearing a collection of vehicles in various stages of disrepair some still serviceable and some on concrete blocks. Johnboy motioned Stuart to the cabin. As Stuart stumbled up the hazardous steps of the abode, there was that same feeling in the air that he had sensed earlier.
Creeeeeek. Stuart opened the ancient door and immediately gasped. The cabin's interior was filled entirely with money. Stacks of all denominations formed makeshift tables and footstools. Beyond the money room, Stuart could see a narrow hallway with two doors. Stuart cautiously stepped over the stacks of currency and proceeded to knock on the door simply labeled Chief.
"Open it there, boy." A smooth Cajun voice resided on the other side of the door. Stuart did as instructed and found himself in the presence of a blind man, in a white suit complete with