Horrible Harvest

The mumbly-mouthed objections and spit-soaked slurs come out of every cracker in the drinkery. They was outraged all to hell that Tate had turnt up in their shithole town and in their backwoods bar where I was filling my belly with libations. We was both far from Charleston, yet here we were, where neither of us was wanted. Just like old times.

The barkeep barked out, “Nah, sir – No, you don’t. You can just turn your black-ass right outa’cheer, right this second.”

“Don’t be rude,” I said.

“That’s alright,” Tate said.

“No, it ain’t,” I replied. “This ol’ pig-fucker ain’t got ‘cause to talk in such a manner to a patron.”

“Look, here, it’ll be a cold day in hell when I let a Yankee-dog and shit-back sumbitch drink in my saloon, mister. You can shoot me ‘tween the eyes right now ‘cause it’ll take me being dead and gone for that to happen.”

I cocked an eyebrow and gripped my Gunnison. “I ain’t opposed to your proposal.”

“I ain’t proposing shit. I’m just saying I want-cha both gone from my place of business.”

“So, this here is what Bobby calls negotiating. I’m usually not on this end of his deals, but I’m game. How ‘bout I just shoot your nose off or take one of your jimmies with my Bowie. Then can me and my friend Tate have us a drink in peace?”

“I’ll wait outside,” Tate said. “I’m not here to cause trouble.”

“You ain’t causing trouble. The pig-fucker is.”

The barkeep turnt red-faced. “I ain’t a pig-fucker, and I ain’t got no idea who this Bobby is, but he taught you shit about negotiating. You can’t have my nose nor nut – That don’t make no goddamn sense – ”

“Bobby Bunning is who – And if I say it makes sense it makes sense – ”

“Bobby Bunning? You know the Bunning brothers?”

“I do?”

“You ain’t with’em are you? I mean you don’t run with’em – Right?”

“What if I do?”

He cleared his throat and backed away from the bar. “You shoulda said, is all. I got no desire to run sideways against Bobby nor his brother nor the Tennyson fella that runs fists and noose for him. I don’t want that kind of trouble.”

I pulled back the hammer on my Gunnison but left it pinned to the bar. “Mister, I ain’t never run nooses for the Bunning Brothers firm. I take offense to that. That ain’t my style. Pistolas and fists – A knife if I wanna take the tongue from some mouthy sumbitch. But nooses – never.”

He swallowed nothing but dust in the air. “You saying, you’re him? Tennyson?”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

“But I asked you if you was Confed, and you said you wasn’t. I heard stories of you in the war. I know you was with that Company K that give the Yankee-trash all kinds of hell.”

“That ain’t how it went. I didn’t say yes or no to your question. You come to me being a bluebelly on your own. What I am is a used to be Confederate. I’ma whole different kind of monster now. Yankees ain’t my quarry no more. I got different shitheads in my sights now. The ones that threw me at bullets and bayonets, that’s who I’m after, and the pig-fuckers who still cheer-em on. So, here’s my final negotiation – Tate drinks and I don’t kill you for being one of those backwards-ass cowards cheering on the misery that was the Confederate States of America. That make sense to you?”

He swallowed again. “It does – Yes, sir, it surely does.”

“Good. Now invite him over.”

“What?”

“Invite Tate over. Polite. Servile.”

“Servile?”

“Beg him, you pig-fucker.”

The barkeep give a nod and said, “Mr. Tate – Please, sir, come on in. Grab you a spot at the bar. Beer or whisky?”

Tate give pause.

“He’ll have same as me. Plenty of both.”

“Whisky will do,” Tate said, stepping with all the care in the world to the bar.

“Then I’ll have the beer he ain’t having.”

Tate settled in next to me. “Old friend.”

“Mr. Tate, what brings you to Jackson, Mississippi?”

“You.”