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Big Nate · (09-17-2016)

Tyler.

It’s a hot day in Texas, like usual in the Summertime. Not a drop of rain has fallen on the long dirt road weaving through the dense trees and overgrown sawgrass. The lake off to the side looks to be three to four feet below its usual level. Definite signs of a drought.

The rental car cuts through the dry dirt , laying down what might be the first set of tire tracks on the road in months, judging by the way the ground splits and coughs up clouds of pale yellow sandstorms around each wheel. The red paint of the Prius is almost completely obliterated into near-white, like a drywaller’s blue jeans.

One last, long curve, right around the edge of that thirsty lake, and then the car slows, creeping by an opening in the trees. It moves past, then the brake lights blink on, nearly smothered by the dust covering them, followed by the white reverse indicators. The Prius slowly backs up, then its rear swerves toward the lake, its back bumper pushing down an unkempt thatch of grass before completing the clumsy three point turn into the breach of the trees.

The Prius moves carefully over what barely qualifies as a yard, then comes to a stop amid a half dozen other vehicles, all with cinder blocks holding up their axels instead of rubber. Most of them are wearing a decade’s worth of rust at the minimum. The remnants of a Dole/Kemp bumper sticker is visible on the back of what was probably, at one time, a pretty nice Impala.

The Prius’ quiet motor shuts off and the door opens, revealing the XWF’s resident journalist extraordinaire, Steve Sayors, sweating through the armpits of his long sleeved orange button up. He leaves the blazer in the passenger seat and walks toward the tiny airstream trailer barely visible from the road, walking by the old Rubbermaid trash can spray painted not with an address, but with a single word:

“Nate.”

Sayors climbs the homemade wooden steps and looks down at the yellow welcome mat depicting the classic Gadsden Flag. He smiles a little and then steps forward, rapping his knuckles against the shoddy door. No response. He knocks again, louder, checking his watch to see if he somehow arrived too early, although with as much trouble he had finding the place out here in the sticks where no Google Earth car ever bothered to go that seems unlikely.

Sayors raises his hand to knock again, but freezes in place when he hears the unmistakable – even to a city slicker – sound of a pump shotgun being prepped right behind his head.

Boyyyyyy…

The voice is incredulous, almost surprised.

WHAT the fuck does it say down there between your feet right now?

Sayors, shaking, looks down at the welcome mat and reads it off in an uneven voice.

Don’t… don’t tread on… on me…

That’s right. So what in the fuck are you doin’ standin’ on top of it in them

ass designer shoes for? HUH?

The ‘huh’ is rough, and it’s accompanied by the barrel of the shotgun nudging the back of Sayors’ head, as if he needed reminding of its presence.

You one of them Mormon homos tryin’ to tell me about your fucked up version of Jesus Christ? You dressed like one. Well I ain’t need any of your fuckin’ pamphlets, CHAD, I know all about Jesus, you got me? I SAID YOU GOT ME? NOD YOUR FUCKIN’ HEAD, BOY!

Sayors starts bobbing his head up and down like Joy Giovanni on a first date.

Yes! I mean, yes, I got you, but I’m not from the LDS… I’m from the XWF!

Some tense moments pass with Sayors still quivering in his loafers and a shotgun mere centimeters from the back of his 200 dollar haircut. Then, a wet noise breaks the silence, followed by the brown splash of chewing tobacco on the back of Sayors’ neck.

Well SHIT, boy, why didn’t you say so in the first place? God damn, I been out at the lake tryin’ to hook a cat or two, but that motherfucker’s dried up faster’n Crooked Hillary’s excuses for Benghazi. Steve, right? Steve Sayors? TURN THE FUCK AROUND WHEN I TALK TO YOU.

Sayors nearly does a full 360 he spins so fast, catching himself so he ends up face to gun. Behind the barrel is a shirtless Nate Higgers, wearing only an old Budweiser ball cap and a set of rubber fish waders up to his nipples.

Nate looks down the length of the gun at Sayors, spits another mouthful of dip out into the grass and then finally lowers the weapon with a smile.

What, you don’t like guns or somethin’? Color me bright surprised on that one, huh? Pretty boy in his pretty suit thinkin’ we need less guns and more government tellin’ us what to do… am I right?

Nate, I’m not here to talk politics…

FUCK you, Sayors, you’re at MY house now. You interrupt me one more time and you’ll be the next thing someone fishes out of that lake across the way, you hear me? Now walk on down here and tell me what dumb ass questions you want answered, boy. Before I get a cramp in my trigger finger.

Sayors takes a hesitant step toward the first of the stairs.

Come on. Gooooood boy. Goooooooooooood boy.

Higgers whistles mockingly at Sayors, like he’s calling a bluetick hound off a coon. The interviewer frowns but bites his tongue, walking down the steps with his hands raised over his head.

Thaaaaaat’s a good bitch. Now. What the fuck do you want?

Sayors clears his throat and does a halfway decent job of regaining some composure while Higgers swings his free hand back and forth, the small disc shaped can making a slapping noise as the reserve of chewing tobacco inside slams against the plastic of the Skoal container.

Sorry, Steve, you know how it goes… it’s LIP THIRTY. Go ahead with your thing.

Higgers goes back to banging the can back and forth, but Sayors just ignores it and reads off a yellow notepad he produces from his back pocket.

Nate, you surprised a lot of people opting to participate in Savage this week. Until now, you’ve just been happy to go for the Federweight –

Which I WON once.

Which yes, you did win once, but quickly lost again to Nico LaVey. We saw you try again against your current opponent Hunter Payne, but were unsuccessful. Does that give you a disadvantage going into Savage?

Nate stares without emotion for a long time, placing a wad of tobacco into his mouth, which produces a large lump under his cheek. He chews several times before releasing a long sit onto the ground right in front of Sayors’ feet, then steps in close to the interviewer.

Listen, boy. I’m gonna be a bigger man right now and pretend you didn’t disrespect me right here in my own yard. I’m doin’ you that favor once, because I’m NICE.

Now… as far as Hunter Payne goes. Well this should be obvious, but NO I don’t have a disadvantage going into Savage. Look at me, boy. I’m a brick shithouse. I’ve been workin’ my ass off and pullin’ myself up by my bootstraps, just like I always have. I did it in the military, where I made Chris Kyle look like an amateur, and I did it back home on the force, too. Meanwhile, Hunter Payne’s just been sittin’ back and lettin’ the good taxpayin’ Americans like myself put food on his anchor babies’ plates for him while sits in his ass watchin’ reruns of Chico and the Man, or whatever Telenovela his PUTA tells him he’s watchin’… since I know he ain’t the one wearin’ the sombrero in that family, Sayors.

This son of a bitch has the damn nerve to waste my time with that promo of his from th’other day, actin’ like I’m supposed to give a damn that his friend got put down like a rabid dog by the boys in blue. Just another idiot, leftist, Black Lives Matter terrorist tryin’ to make cops doin’ their damn job fit his narrative… well, your narrative SUCKS, Hunter.

You know, when I first seen that boy Ray Peterson on screen, I thought ol’ Hunter was at the Cincinnati Zoo visitin’ that Ha-ram-bay monkey.

Hallowed be thy name…

WHAT? Sayors what the fuck are you talkin’ about, boy? You’re more confusin’ than why anyone would feel bad about that THUG getting’ shot in the first place. Ray Peterson, I mean, not the go-rilla. I still got friends on the force, you know, and I got a peek at the bodycam footage from that shootin’, and boy let me tell you – it’s CLEAN as a whistle. That thug was resisting everything the officer asked him to do, and he made a move toward his waistband. It was clear as day. Those cops had reason to believe their lives were in danger and they made the only call they could. Blue Lives Matter, Sayors, not Thug Lives.

Sayors, this week on Savage I’m gonna get my win back against that greased up beaner Hunter Payne, and then I’m gonna take his ol’ lady backstage and slam her like a screen door in a hurricane. Hate to break it to you, BOY, but you ain’t getting’ a green card that easy. I’ll make that pretty princess the queen of my trailer, and she can drop little Higgers Juniors out her ass for the rest of her life like a good God fearin’ woman should. I’ll have to get her good and douched until her snatch don’t stink like taco meat and guacamole first, but I’ll get the job done. Hunter’s gonna have to find a different dumbass American woman to trick into marryin’ him into citizenship.

Nate, Hunter is from Los Angeles, he isn’t…

THWACK

Sayors falls face first into the puddle of dip spit in the grass, knocked ass over teakettle by an open handed slap from Nate Higgers.

Higgers kneels down next to the dominated Sayors, and keeps talking.

I don’t care if Hunter Payne is from Puerto Rico, Havana, Tijuana, or god damn Tupelo, Mississippi. He’s a fraud, a sham, a lazy immigrant bastard who’s got nothin’ to look forward to this weekend but an ass whoopin’ from a patriot. When I’m done with him he can sit for every National Anthem just like his new hero Colin Castro-nick, because I’m gonna break his fuckin’ legs.

Now… get off my property, commie.

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