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Clubfoot By C. N. Pitts (1911 words)
The fire was crackling, the moon was full, and the A-1 primo Cambodian skunk-weed that Zach had packed away for the camping trip had the three of them feeling righteously stoned, drifting along at that magical point where one is completely in tune with the whole of the universe and everything in it. “Dudes,” said Wendy, watching Jason as he stretched a lazy arm from his sleeping bag and dug a beer out of the cooler. “We should tell campfire stories like when we were little. Remember?” Psssht went the can, spraying a small jet of Coors into Jason’s eye. Wendy giggled at the sight of Jason wiping his face with his t-shirt. “Jason, you go first. You must know at least one scary story.” Jason pondered for a second. “How about this one? Years ago there was a summer camp, right here on this very lake…” “Oh, fucking please,” said Zach, winging an empty can in Jason’s direction. “Lemme guess; big dude, hockey mask, machete? Vaguely familiar first name?” Jason laughed and flipped him off. Zach rolled his eyes. “All right then,” Jason snorted. “If you don’t like my shit, you tell one.” Zach thought about it. “Man with the Golden Arm?” he asked. “Dude, that was lame when we were seven.” “Okay, that leaves the ‘Iron Hook’ one out then too. Shit, I dunno man. The only ones I remember are the stupid ones from when we were kids.” “You know,” said Wendy, peering up at the sky with a thoughtful look on her face, “I have one - weirdest fucking thing I ever heard.” “This ought to be good,” said Zach. “By all means darlin’, do tell.” Wendy favored him with one of her patented why-am-I-dating-you looks. “Okay, remember this morning, when you guys were setting up, and I went back to that ratty old store we passed coming in because somebody forgot to pack the toilet paper?” She fake-coughed “Zach,” which earned her a dirty look. “Elmo’s,” said Jason, and then in his best horror-movie-announcer voice added “The Gas Station of the Living Dead.” “Hell, yeah,” laughed Zach. “Who could forget that place? Beer! Gas! Crawlers!” “That’s the one,” Wendy said, nodding. “So I get in there, and the guy running it is this little old dude. I get the TP and he’s cashing me out, and we’re chatting, you know, just making small talk. But then, when I tell him we’re camping up here, he gets all fidgety. Says maybe we should reconsider. So I ask him why, and he won’t tell me. Says he’d rather not talk about it, but it’s a bad idea because these woods are ‘dangerous.’” Zach rolled his eyes. “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death,” he said. “I shall fear no evil…” “Because I am the baddest motherfucker in the valley,” finished Jason, with a chuckle. “Clowns,” said Wendy. “So anyways, I whip out a little of the old feminine wiles on him…” “Shake that ass,” said Jason. “No man can resist the junk in your trunk.” “I know I ain’t ever said no to it,” Zach said, leering at her. “…and I finally get him to tell me the story..."
contest
(2006), and will appear in 'Dark Discoveries' magazine very soon.
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