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~~Andrew Morrison~~ · (09-05-2013)

The scene opens to a deep orange sunset over a low and fairly unimpressive tree line. The scent of fading summer still lingers in the air as the shot pans down. A pair of large black crows cut through the sunlight, fighting over a piece of carcass in one of their mouths. As the frame continues past the tree line it comes upon a small hut. Obviously not something even the most desperate of a man would live in, this ramshackle lean-to looks more likely to adjoin to a residence but serve some other purpose. The two makeshift chimneys extending from the shingled roof make this more obvious, but they don’t appear to be in use at the moment. As the view moves closer a pair of large wooden barrels can be seen in front of the door. The first of which has “XXX” burned into the wood but it is in front of the other, the one marked “XXXXX” that we see Kale Hartmann sitting.

Kale sits on a small stool next to this barrel, clad in a dirty white tee shirt and a pair of blue jeans. On his feet is the same pair of black cowboy boots that he appears never to take off and atop his head is that trademark jet black hat.

Kale: This little shed might not look like much now, but go back a couple decades and it did a roaring trade. Almost every property down here in Alabam’ had one and men would use them for different things. Some gutted deer in theirs, some smoked jerky and others turned wood; but this here little thing first belonged to my Grandpappy and he used it to cook up Moonshine.

Kale pushes the door open with his far hand. Inside the hut the remnants of two homemade stills remain. One is an old porcelain bath tub while the other a hollowed out forty-four gallon drum. Stains and burns on the roof and walls show some evidence of the hut’s glory days.

Kale: In these parts some men will drink anything. Lord I couldn’t even tell you what Pappy used to put in these stills but what came out the other end was a liquid that would put hairs on your chest then burn the sumbithches right off again. White Lightning they called it and damned if it wasn’t a dangerous substance to handle. I remember when I was not but six years old and I looked a little too close to a bad barrel. The cap flew off and the yellow flame that jutted out took off both my eyebrows and damn near the eyes that went with them. But it’s not just the stuff itself that’s hazardous; it’s mostly the men who drink it.

Kale reaches down behind the barrel beside him and pulls out an old Mason Jar. The liquid within is so clear it’s hard to tell if the jar isn’t just in fact empty. Only the sloshing around of the stuff as Kale sits it on top of the barrel makes certain that there’s something in there.

Kale: Any man could mix up a batch of three X but it took some real stones and a little bit of practice to get anything better than that. But what Grandpappy was famous for wasn’t any run of the mill 100 proof, he was the only man for eighty miles who could boast a 160 proof. That’s over 80% pure alcohol that folk referred to as five X. Not any old fella could handle the stuff but, and that meant pappy had to sell it cheap. Only two kinds of men came looking for the hard stuff, the really hard up and the really hard drinkers. It just so happened most of the time these came assets came hand in hand.

Kale unscrews the lid from the jar of clearly well aged ‘Shine and holds it to his nose. The fumes rising up from the mouth of the jar are actually visible, and you can all but see them burning Kale’s nose hairs right off. But Hartmann is unflinching and takes a couple of large sniffs before resting the lid back on top.

Kale: Old Grandaddy Hartmann was a charitable man and let some of the local boozers take a couple of jars on bond. Unfortunately for them his impatience far outweighed his kindness and anyone who was more than a couple weeks late with their payments would get a visit from Pappy and his Blackjack. Once I came of a certain age he saw fit to bring me along on one of his collections. It was in fact on my twelfth birthday none the less that we payed a visit to the Matilda brothers.

In the background the sun has all but disappeared beyond the lowly forest as a coyote’s howl is heard to mark the coming night. The orange hue from over the trees is still enough to light the scene, while at the same time creating twisting and eerie shadows from the jagged edges of the aging hut.

Kale: Renown throughout the county as drunkards and sponges the brothers were already most of the way through their latest batch but owed for that and the three prior. It wasn’t the first time Pappy had paid them a visit and odds are it wouldn’t be the last. As we approached the elder and drunker of the two got right up and stumbled towards us. Spurting and spattering about how they were good for it and would settle their debts next week the man was asking for it. He became more and more desperate while Pop Hartmann stood silent. Matilda started kneeling at his feet and clawing away at Pappy’s overalls begging for mercy before he’d even seen the club. But it was the younger and seemingly more sober of the two brothers who first felt the wrath. As he finally got up from his seat and took a step Pappy was cat quick and on him in a heartbeat. One swing of the Blackjack was all it took to knock the man down but the old man wasn’t done there. He swung the club with wild abandon, backhanded and over again into the younger Matilda’s head and body and legs and any other body part he could hit. His brother cowered into a ‘Shine soaked ball, terrified that he was next while Pop Hartmann beat the younger into a bloody mess.

In remembering and retelling the story a frightening glint has come into Kale’s eye. He has looked up from the jar in his hand and is staring right down the lens. His steeled gaze is unflinching as he tells of a man being beat half to death. His eyes say that the story is far from a traumatic memory; more so a treasured boyhood remembrance.

Kale: Pappy was rabid, his eyes bugged red and spit flew from his mouth as he swung. Finally he stopped and reached into the motionless man’s pockets to take whatever money happened to be in there. Much less than what they owed but Pappy knew that it was all he was going to get. Meanwhile the plastered elder brother had crawled over to their last remaining jar and cuddled it like a baby. Pop Hartmann spat at him to consider the debt squared but warned neither of them to show their face to him again; else he may not be so kind.

Throughout all this I stood still, watching all unfold before my eyes. A fresh faced twelve year old it was my first taste of true violence and from that day until now all I have ever wanted is more. To look down at the broken mess of a man my Grandfather had made all that I wanted was to do that to a man myself. It might have been business for Pappy, but from that day forward beating a man senseless has been nothing but pleasure for me. But you better believe Kale Hartmann doesn’t need no Blackjack to get the job done.

The steel in Kale’s eyes has turned to pure fire as he stands up from behind the barrel. Jar still in hand he clenches tight as his face resembles how he described his Grandfather’s during the story.

Kale: Lucky for me I’ve managed to find a way to get paid for doing it. Hell, stepping into that old squared circle I’m actually encouraged to do it. Kale Hartmann may have floated between rings for a while but all these companies have two things in common. They all have three letters to their name and they are all full of saps ripe for a beating. This newest one they call XWF and on Monday in New York they’re throwing me three guys at once to play with. Three men at once to learn that Kale Hartmann doesn’t need a weapon to beat a man bloody. Shotgun Eddy can learn firsthand that my boot heels are as good as any baton. Duke Nitro will see that my forearms hit as hard as club. And Sokolov Red will know that my fists can inflict more pain than he has ever felt before. This Monday at Madness not only the three boys in the ring with me, but all of the XWF will experience what it’s really like to visit the South.

Courtesy of the New South, Kale Hartmann.

At those last forceful words the camera zooms out and pans up from Kale, who stands motionless after delivering the final line. As the shot widens the scene is now almost devoid of sunlight but we can still make out Kale’s final act. He lifts the lid from the Jar he has held this entire time and downs half of the contents in one giant swill. Past the camera flies the victorious crow from the earlier fight, with the tattered raccoon tail of victory clenched in its beak as the scene fades to black.

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