Speaker 1: Plant growing problems by Larry Brown. Jerry Barlow eased the
sixty seven sportster to the edge of the sand road
and shut off the motor. He listened closely to the
silence of the woods. Aside from the voices of a
few mocking birds and blue jays crouched in the leaves
of blackjack oak and scrub pine, nothing could be heard
except the ticking of his hot motor. He got off
and unstrapped the short handled hoe and the gallon joke
of liquid plant food from the chrome sissy bar. He
knew Bacon County, Georgia was a dangerous place to be
doing what he was doing, but he was sure he
wouldn't get caught. He lit a cigarette and listened carefully
for a few more minutes, hearing nothing approaching vehicle, He
picked up the hoe in the jug and he stepped
off the road. He had fifteen healthy female plants not
four hundred yards off the road, and it was time
to water them and hold the weeds from between the stalks.
There was a fairly worn trail leading from the road
beside his bike to a small patch of grass, and
he didn't look down to see the tracks made by
somebody's heavily booted feet. He slung the hole over his
shoulder and walked through the warm august woods, carefully watching
ahead for snakes. There were rattlesnakes in these woods, and
some of them were as thick as a man's wrist.
Ahead of him a few hundred yards, Sheriff of Cecil
Tailor lay on his enormous gut and wiped away the
streams of sweat running down under his sunglasses. His cruiser
was backed up and carefully hidden down the road a piece,
as it had been for the last three days in
a row. He could have sent some of his deputies
to do this job, but he wanted to catch Jerry
Barlow with the grass himself. He liked to get these
drug addicts under his thumb, especially when they were bikers
like Barlow. Sheriff Taylor had carefully estimated the yield on
these fifteen plants, and by the time fall got here
and they were fully matured, he was pretty sure he
could make a really big bundle by selling the stuff
to his brother in law, who also happened to own
the finest whiskey still in this part of the state.
But that wasn't the whole story, not at all. Sheriff
Taylor knew this particular patch of weed would probably be
good enough to save back a couple of pounds for
his own personal stash. He loved the good buzz as
much as the next man. He watched Jerry Kress the
last ridge coming into the small clearing where the dirt
was dark and sandy. He had to hand it to Barlow.
He picked a very good spot for his weed. The
soil here was just right, just loose enough for a
good root system and rich enough to furnish the plants
with the nutrients they needed. And they're damned sure wouldn't
be anybody wandering around the rattler's roost in the summertime,
not unless he wanted a fast, fatal case of snake bite.
But Barlow had parked his bike in the same spot
once too often, and Taylor had found his patch. He
had hoped the Barlow boy wouldn't do anything stupid like
trying to run or fight. He'd have to hate the
shoot the shit out of him, because then he wouldn't
be able to keep the grass for himself. There'd be
an investigation, and some of those damn Dea boys would
be in here, and they'd confiscate the grass and keep
it for themselves, like they always did. But even so,
he reached back and unholstered the heavy three point fifty
seven Mark III trooper and assumed the prone firing position
from his hiding place under the low foliage of a
small patch of honeysucknes. He was sure Barlow wouldn't see
him until he was ready for him too. He lay
back and watched the young man as he eased carefully
up to the clearing and looked all around. Sheriff Taylor
chuckled to himself as Jerry laid the hole down and
began pouring the blue liquid plant food around each plant. Abruptly,
the fat man hollered here's cecil and laughed out loud
when Jerry spun to face him. His expression won of
Shock's surprise. Sheriff Taylor was a pretty sorry old son
of a bitch, but he had a great sense of humor. Well.
Jerry was in a low crouch, looking almost as if
he meant to try to run for it, but he
stopped when he heard the hammer come back on the
big pistol now drop. A sweat ran down his nose,
and hung on the end, suspended in the hot, dusty
silence between them. I wouldn't try that shit, boy, Taylor said,
not lest you want the undertaker packing your ass so
full of cotton about dark Jerry relaxed and eased his
lanky six foot frame to the ground. He sat cross
legged and watched the red faced sherp get up off
the ground, still holding the cannon in front of him.
You can put the gun away, man, I ain't going nowhere.
Oh yeah, boy, you ain't going nowhere. The pot bellied
officer dusted off the front of his pants and shirt,
but didn't put the gun away. His tone was almost jovial,
and the speech was well rehearsed. You're definitely going somewhere,
probably up to Reedsville for a goodly portion of your life,
either that or out to the farm for a while.
Jerry knew what he was talking about. The county ran
a small correction unit for the lesser criminals, a condition
forced on too many county law enforcement agencies by the
overcrowding of the prisons and the ever increasing number of felons.
He'd heard some bad things about that place. He talked
to a boy who had spent fifteen months out there
for passing a bad check, and the boy had told
Jerry he'd leave the country before they'd let him put
him back in that rat hole. The inmates were forced
to work twelve hours a day in the truck patches
raising vegetables, and he told Jerry that most of the
money from the sale of the produce went right into
Cecil Taylor's back pocket. The boy also hinted that there
were some people who went inside and never came back out,
least not alive. He thought about all this as Taylor
crossed a small patch of ground between them and stopped
in front of him. Stand out. The words came up
from his potgut in a wheeze. He wore a small,
thin smile on his cruel lips. Jerry stood up slowly
and waited while Taylor walked in a small circle around him.
His mind raised as he tried to figure his way
out of this. The only chance he had was to
get away right now the sheriff with his fist, or
get the gun away from him, and if the cop
ever got him in the jail, it would be all over.
He didn't even want to think about spending the next
few years in Reidsville. You fucking bikers think you can
just do like you please, don't you? Jerry didn't answer,
he dirty, greasy scum. The words made the blood rush
up in Jerry's neck, turn his face red. It was
now or never, and he whirled and through his fist,
But the fat man had already anticipated that. He stepped
aside with a practiced motion and let the punch go
over his shoulder, bringing the barrel of the gun down
on top of Jerry's skull, and a light flashed inside
his head and his brain shorted out. He didn't even
feel it when he hit the ground. He couldn't tell
how much time had passed when he woke up, but
the sun hung low on the Blue Georgia's sky. He
was alone. The mosquitoes had bitting him all over his
arms and face, and they buzzed around his head in
a maddening swarm. He couldn't bat him away because his
wrists were firmly held by a pair of bright chrome handcuffs.
Jerry jerked him apart, but the cold steel only cut
into the flesh of his wrist. There was no way
to break them or get them off. But maybe he
could make it back to the road. He didn't know
why the sheriff had left him alone like this, but
he wasn't about to wait around for him to come back.
He got up on one knee and almost passed out
again from the pain throbbing through his head. It felt
as if somebody had his head between two ball pink hammers,
batting it back and forth. He had to let several
minutes pass before he could get to his feet. The
pounding in his temples sent jolts of agony racing through
him with every step he took, but he didn't take
very many. He stopped when he saw Sheriff Taylor blocking
the trail. The fat man and had been watching him
all that time, and in his hands he was holding
a very large diamondback rattler. It was on the end
of a stick with a wire loop drawn tightly around
its neck. The bulk of its stick body moved and
swayed in the air below the head. The fork tongue
flickered and tested the air. Jerry froze where he stood.
He was about to be murdered. There was no doubt
in his mind. Interesting thing about these stakes, the sheriff said,
you can catch them anytime you want to, And all
you gotta have is a little piece of garden hose
and a teaspoon of gas. Just stick the hose down
his hole and pour in the gas. It runs about
every time. They'll probably find your body sometime this winter,
after deer season opens. Wouldn't be nobody around till then. Now.
I appreciate you leaving me the dope, though, then he
came after Jerry. Jerry tried to run, but the pain
was too bad. The fat man was laughing and wheezing
as he closed in on him. Jerry turned and tried
to get closer to the road, but he knew he'd
never make it, not while he was still hurt like this,
And if the situation hadn't been so deadly, it would
have been ridiculous. Jerry was running and stumbling and trying
to jump the clumps of palmetto and sawbriar, and the
sheriff was whooping and chasing him like a fun loving
schoolboy after a little girl with pigtails, only there was
no teacher for Jerry to run to. Taylor was about
to catch him. Jerry risked one glance behind him, just
as he got up close to the huge pino and
he saw an amazing thing happen. Sheriff Taylor was so
intent on catching Jerry that he forgot about watching the
handle of the stick, and he got tangled between his
fat thighs. He tipped and landed face down on his
flabby belly, and his giles hung slack with horror. As
he sat up and Jerry duck behind a tree. The
sheriff squealed at the top of his lungs like a
stuck pig when he saw the snake hanging from his arm.
The fangs sunk to the roof of its mouth. The
jaws were stretched wide, chewing and working and injecting the
venom deep into his blood stream. He screamed while he
clawed at the holster with his free hand, blubbering like
a baby until he got the pistol out, and there
was a mad panic in his eyes as he looked
from Jerry to the snake and started begging him for help.
Oh Jesus, God, help me. He bit me, He bit me. Jey,
oh God, to some of bitches in my arm. Then
he cocked the pistol and stuck the muzzle against the
smooth white scales of the snake's belly, and he blew
it apart with one thunderous blast. Little pieces of pink
meat and snake guts splattered against his face, some of
it landing on his lips, and he laid the gun down,
and Jerry watched in fascination from behind the tree as
the sheriff grabbed the pulpy, writhing body and pull the
head and the fangs out of his arm with an
awful groan. Clear liquid oozed from the twin punctures on
his forearm. The holes were red and puffy, and he
could feel the tingle starting in his fingertips, and he
screamed for help again. You gotta help me, You gotta
help me. Please, you gotta cut me. Oh Lord, you
gotta cut me. And then his voice trailed off to
a weak whimper as his head sagged down on his chest.
You throw me that gun, man, Jerry called. He didn't
intend to step out and help and then get a
hole blown in him for his trouble. I got a
knife and I'll cut it, but you gotta throw me
that gun. Sheriff Taylor was shaking and a rigor went
through his body. His heart was pounding, and he knew
each second that passed and each beat of his heart
would send the venom closer closer to the big muscle.
But instead of throwing the gun, he snatched it up
and screamed, you son of a bitch. Jerry duck back
behind the tree as four deafening blasts rocked the woods
around him. The soft nosed slugs tore into the trunk
of the tree, and he pressed his face flat to
the ground and trembled. A shock after shock ran through
the wood, and then he heard the dull click of
the hammer striking on spent cartridges, and he looked up.
The sheriff's face was a pasty white color, drained of blood,
and the man realized that he was about to die
a slow and horrible death hearing these woods where the
maggots and the buzzards would strip his riding carcass. He
was crying now, and the pistol fell from his stiff
fingers and dropped to the dusty ground, And Jerry got
up immediately and walked toward the fallen man, holding the
cuffs in front of him. Open them quick, if you
want me to help you. He knelt in front of
tailor and the fat man fumbled for the key on
his belt and his hands were shaking, but he found
the tiny hole in the cuffs and they clicked open. Yeah,
cut it, cut it, you gotta cut it quick. Jerry
dug in his pocket and found his knife, the three
bladed case that would shave the hair on his legs.
He didn't waste any time telling Taylor how bad it
was going to hurt. He just grabbed the sweaty arm
and made two deep slashing cuts through the fang marks.
The skin and meat peeled apart like overripe fruit as
the blade bit deep blood jumped out in two gushing streams,
but Taylor didn't seem to fill the fiery bite of
the knife. A look of relief washed across his face. Okay,
Jerry said, that ought to hold you till you can
get to the hospital. If you hurry, I don't think
he hit a vein, or you'd be having a heart
attack by now. Taylor got to his feet and swayed dizzily,
and he clutched it with his bloody hands and begged
him for help. You gotta walk me to my car.
It sparked right up here about two three hundred yards away.
Jerry pushed his hands away and backed up. No way, mad,
I did all I'm gonna do for you. I'm getting
the hell out of here. You can't leave me. I
can't make it out. Help me to my car. Jerry
started to walk away, but he turned back because the
fat man was crying in the most pitiful voice he
had ever heard. It was stupid even to consider helping him,
and as soon as he got to his car, he'd
get on the radio and call for help, and more
than likely for some deputies to come after Jerry. One
part of him said leave him, but he didn't think
he'd be able to live with himself if he did that.
He didn't want to be responsible for a man's death,
even after what had just happened. All he wanted was
to just get away. Against his better judgment and against
the nagging little voice of his concent he slipped the
sheriff's arm around his neck and said, come on. The
bit and arm was swelling rapidly now. Already the fingers
were puffed up so bad he could barely move him.
Which way's your car? Man? Jerry was having a hard
time holding up the fat man and sweat poured off
both of them straight up the hill over to the left.
It's a bunch of pine trees. Jerry staggered under the
dying man's weight and the pounding pain still racing through
his head. After five minutes of all out effort, he
came out on the road below the car, and he
was so tired he could hardly stand. Taylor sank down
slowly to his knees, and his arm was turning purple,
and every vein stood outlined against the skin, and his
flesh looked as if it was about to burst. I
can't go no further, he panted. You gotta drive the
car down down here, give me to a hospital. Keys
under the seat. Jerry sagged against the tree and looked
down at them. The sheriff had lost his hat somewhere
back in the bushes, and his gray hair hung in
his eyes. The man appeared near death. Jerry closed his
eyes briefly against the sweat steaming them, and then turned
and ran in a shuffling, head jarring trot. He almost
ran past the tan cruiser hidden in a thicket of
pine trees. The keys were right where the sheriff had
said they would be Jerry cranked it quickly and then
pulled out and back down the road until he saw Taylor,
the sheriff, was sinking fast. Jerry couldn't tell that the
fat man was watching him carefully from under slitted eyes,
and he allowed Jerry to pull him to his feet
and help him under the wheel, And then, with a
practiced fluid movement, he reached and pulled a double barrel
shotgun from under the seat. The barrels were so off,
six inches ahead of the chambers, and the spit dried
in Jerry's mouth. When he found himself staring into the
twin black holes, he wondered what it was gonna feel
like to be shot in the face, And when he
heard the hammers come back, he knew there would be
nothing but a roar and then blackness forever. He couldn't
hold his words back. Is this how you pay me back,
you fat son of a bitch. You'd have died if
it hadn't been for me. I should have left your
fat ass back there on the trail. Taylor's lips and
face were swollen. Then he couldn't speak plainly. He drooled
a little. It was hard for him to hold his
head up straight. Jerry had trouble understanding his words. You
damn bikers ain't got you, ain't got. Nobody fooled, not me.
I know, I know. A great pain seized the Sheriff's chest,
causing him to sag back against the sea. It felt
like a huge fist holding his heart and squeezing the
blood out of it. His tongue went up to the
roof of his mouth, and the barrel swung away from
Jerry as he fell back, holding his flabby tent with
a hideous black hand three times its normal size. Jerry
moved fast without thinking. His foot lashed out and struck
the shotgun, pushing it up into the air, and it
went off, both barrels going at the same time, blowing
a shower of pine cones and needles down through the
tree limbs. Jerry didn't wait to see anything else. He
took off running, hearing the car behind him, and he
didn't stop until he got to his bike. The cruiser
came roaring out of the dirt road, sliding sideways with
a madman behind the wheel. The tires were churning and
bucking across the dusty ground, throwing a curtain of dirt
and sand into the hot air. Taylor had the transmitter
off the radio in his puffy hand, howling and screeching
orders and instructions that were never heard because his fingers
were too thick to depress the transment button. The Harley
coughed once and roared to thundering life as Jerry put
all his weight into the kickstarter. Even over the rumble
of his own motor, he could hear the carburetor of
the Plymouth engines sucking in great gusts of air as
Tailor laid his dying foot into it. Jerry kicked the
bike into first and he goosed it and popped the
clutch and laid it over, spinning in a tight circle
in the sand, the swing arm bouncing and jarn until
he pulled it back up and flew down the road
behind the Tan cruiser, eating dust, but determined to see
the end of it. The car pulled out of sight quickly,
and then he was riding blind in a cloud of dust,
and he rode through one hundred yards of it until
suddenly the clouds stopped in a sharp curve. Jerry's foot
came down hard on rear brake and he stopped with
the sound of his motor beating loud in his ear.
The big Pine tree was still shaking from the impact
of six thousand pounds of airborne car hitting it at
sixty miles an hour. Sheriff Taylor was lying part way
out on the hood in a pool of shattered safety
glass and he was spewing blood. Miss Jerry spun out
of the sand and hit the second gear. He laid
the bike low into the next curve and started picking
up speed. He glanced over his shoulder and it seemed
to him that the dead man was waving goodbye with
his puffy black hand. Okay, I hope you all enjoyed
that story by Larry Brown. I'm going to start doing
I'm going to try to start uploading a video every
Friday and call it Fiction Friday. What I'll try to
do is get permission from published authors who have published
works with short stories and share those with you. Some
of them be monster stories, some of them won't be.
Some of them just be damn good stories like this one.
This was a good story. Larry Brown is a was
a prolific author and well published author. There's just his
story of how he learned to write is amazing. I've
never read a short story that he wrote that I
didn't like. And next week I'm going to do another
one by Larry Brown for Halloween. It's actually a really
good ghost story. They're kind of Southern themed. Anyway, I
think you guys who enjoy fiction will enjoy it. I
probably won't hit every fiction Friday because I'm no good
with schedules because I never know. I never know what
I'm going to do the next day or what's going
to be asked of me to do the next day
in my regular job. But anyway, I really appreciate you
listening to this. I hope you enjoy and I hope
you appreciate the talent of these writers that I'll try
to share their stories with you over time. I don't
know how long this will go. And by the way,
I did get in contact with Larry Brown's family. Larry
died back in two thousand and four, so he's not
alive anymore. But I got in touch with his family
and they said, yeah, go ahead and do his story,
and so I actually did two of them. We're going
to do another one next week. And anyway, I can't
do copyrighted stuff without permission, A verbal permission is fine
with me because if it's ever a problem, all I
have to do is delete the video. But anyway, I
just want to share with you some really good, well
written stuff, along with the emails that we get from
viewers and pretty much everything else we do. So I
don't know, that's all I wanted to say. I really
appreciate you listening, and we'll see you guys on the
next video. Thanks and