Post by Old Line Jeff on Sept 11, 2022 23:27:11 GMT -5
If you’ve never been to the American Southeast, you can understand a lot of things. You can understand the idea of worrying for your safety if the locals don’t take a shine to you. You can understand the heat, and the wildlife. But you can’t understand the humidity.
Katie Moss had never been to Mississippi, but Mr. Blood had decided to send her there, “to observe the Brothers Gluck in their native habitat, without Daeriq Damien putting words in their mouths.” As soon as she’d stepped off the plan at Louis Armstrong International, every article of clothing she was wearing stuck to her. The blazer was like a suit of armor, the nylons like plastic wrap. By the time she got to the rental car, she’d given up on the idea of doing this interview in makeup.
New Orleans was one thing, and she fully planned to get at least one good day of sightseeing and shopping in once her work was done, but that wasn’t what was in store for her. Stepping into the rental, she immediately turned the AC up to full blast, turned on the GPS, and started driving out of reality and into… well…
The Low Country is flat. Scraggy trees could be seen from miles away, and there were dozens of tiny ponds scattered around. Where the plants grew they were lush, but there were long swathes of bare mud, studded with glassy puddles of water. Even through the windows and the air conditioning she could hear the bugsong. The houses, which hadn’t been grand to start with, became more decrepit, more eaten by moss and climbing vines. Driveways were muddy ruts. The hostility she’d half expected wasn’t there, but the amount of closed… everything… was eerie. Gas stations, convenience stores, bridal stores, flower parlors, restaurants, even pawn shops. It was a wasteland.
She turned down a gravel road, and her GPS told her she was in the right place.
The house was right in the hazy area between ‘cozy country cottage’ and ‘creepy swamp shack’. It was a shotgun style house, with a hallway running down one side, and a lean-to style addition, newer than the rest of it, against the hall. A massive live oak tree in the front yard had a tire swing, an old pond with a weathered, half-rotten dock was behind the house, a few chickens were running around the front yard… and there was a big kettle over a wood fire, and Carlton Gluck was stirring something in it.
The older Gluck looked like he might’ve sprung from that mud. His forehead was sweating, his massive arms flexing as he stirred. His legs were wide, his belly between his knees, his feet planted, his bare toes digging into the mud.
“Yew made it, Miss Mawss. Whut d’yew think ov Mississippi?”
“I’m not really sure yet. Carlton Gluck, right? I’m here on assignment-”
“Ah’ve bin made awares, Miss Mawss. Make yersef right at home heah. Ah know you’ve ain’t got th’ bess impression of mah brother an Ah, but that’s jes pro wrasslin stuff. Southern hawspitality’s sacred. Pull up a seat, grab a drink. We got errythang. Beer, coke, beer, uh… Ah’m funnin’ ya miss, we do got beer but we got stuff a lady might like. Water, wine coolers, sodapop, yew just help yerself.”
Katie popped open a giant cooler full of half melted ice and assorted beverages, selecting a water. “While I’m on the job.” She said.
Carlton nodded. “Iss important to keep yer mahnd… ohn the jahb.”
“Before I start” Katie interrupted, “where’s Chapps?”
Carlton’s laughter boomed like a shotgun, making Katie jump. He pointed up into the branches of the live oak. Sure enough, there was Chapps, two thirds of the way up the tree, and apparently he was chasing a rooster.
“Isn’t he a little… heavy for tree climbing?”
“He knows what he’s doin’.” Carlton’s voice was deep and slow, surprisingly soothing. “And yew want to know what Ah’m doin’? Well, Ah’m making Car-oh-ly-nah Hash. Yew take the scraps of th’ pig that ain’t good enuff f’da barbecue, an yew stew ‘em with a spice blend passed down from yore mamaw’s mamaw, til it gets tender. In a weird way, Miss Mawss, it’s jes like pro wrasslin.”
Of course, it always comes back to pro wrestling.
“We got them Fairtex Boys, an’ them Purge fellers, as ar first real opponents. And Miss Mawss, t’be honest Ah ain’t got much for them Fairitaxes.”
Katie, who was an astute young woman, made a mental note that he mispronounced ‘Fairtex’ on purpose the second time after getting it right the first time. Chapps not so much, but Carlton seemed a good bit smarter than he let on.
“These Purge fellers, an’ their pretty little clownie girly doin’ that Pennywise cawsplay…”
Another mental note for Katie - Carlton knows enough about non-redneck subjects to be familiar with the concept of cosplay.
“Well, if yer’ gonna do th’ religion thang, an’ Ah personally keep my faith t’myself, what Ah’m sayin’ badly is, they got it all mixed up. Y’got the zombie mask, and th’ Luciferian names, an’ th’ assorted anti-Christian trappings, but then yer gonna preach hellfire an’ damnation straight. Lahke, which is it? It’s damn diserspectful either way, but at least pick one sahd an’ stick with it.”
“GAWT IM!” A bellow from above, a shower of leaves, and Chapps lands in the dirt with a crash, a struggling rooster in his hand, his forearm scratched and bleeding from the rooster’s claws.
“Yew sure did git ‘im, Chapps.” Carlton’s contrabass voice was tinged with sarcasm. “Now go clean yerself off an’ innerduce yerself to ar guest.”
Chapps looked Katie over, and his eyebrows craned up. He nodded his head, and bolted inside the shack still holding the rooster.
“Got nothin’ much for the Purge, an’ even less for Team Fairitax. Jus this. Out here on the flats, when we got somethin’ to celebrate, we make Hash. Jes lakh when we get inta that professional wrasslin’ ring.”
Carlton’s big mouth splits open in a grin.
“We’re gonna make some hash.”
Katie Moss had never been to Mississippi, but Mr. Blood had decided to send her there, “to observe the Brothers Gluck in their native habitat, without Daeriq Damien putting words in their mouths.” As soon as she’d stepped off the plan at Louis Armstrong International, every article of clothing she was wearing stuck to her. The blazer was like a suit of armor, the nylons like plastic wrap. By the time she got to the rental car, she’d given up on the idea of doing this interview in makeup.
New Orleans was one thing, and she fully planned to get at least one good day of sightseeing and shopping in once her work was done, but that wasn’t what was in store for her. Stepping into the rental, she immediately turned the AC up to full blast, turned on the GPS, and started driving out of reality and into… well…
The Low Country is flat. Scraggy trees could be seen from miles away, and there were dozens of tiny ponds scattered around. Where the plants grew they were lush, but there were long swathes of bare mud, studded with glassy puddles of water. Even through the windows and the air conditioning she could hear the bugsong. The houses, which hadn’t been grand to start with, became more decrepit, more eaten by moss and climbing vines. Driveways were muddy ruts. The hostility she’d half expected wasn’t there, but the amount of closed… everything… was eerie. Gas stations, convenience stores, bridal stores, flower parlors, restaurants, even pawn shops. It was a wasteland.
She turned down a gravel road, and her GPS told her she was in the right place.
The house was right in the hazy area between ‘cozy country cottage’ and ‘creepy swamp shack’. It was a shotgun style house, with a hallway running down one side, and a lean-to style addition, newer than the rest of it, against the hall. A massive live oak tree in the front yard had a tire swing, an old pond with a weathered, half-rotten dock was behind the house, a few chickens were running around the front yard… and there was a big kettle over a wood fire, and Carlton Gluck was stirring something in it.
The older Gluck looked like he might’ve sprung from that mud. His forehead was sweating, his massive arms flexing as he stirred. His legs were wide, his belly between his knees, his feet planted, his bare toes digging into the mud.
“Yew made it, Miss Mawss. Whut d’yew think ov Mississippi?”
“I’m not really sure yet. Carlton Gluck, right? I’m here on assignment-”
“Ah’ve bin made awares, Miss Mawss. Make yersef right at home heah. Ah know you’ve ain’t got th’ bess impression of mah brother an Ah, but that’s jes pro wrasslin stuff. Southern hawspitality’s sacred. Pull up a seat, grab a drink. We got errythang. Beer, coke, beer, uh… Ah’m funnin’ ya miss, we do got beer but we got stuff a lady might like. Water, wine coolers, sodapop, yew just help yerself.”
Katie popped open a giant cooler full of half melted ice and assorted beverages, selecting a water. “While I’m on the job.” She said.
Carlton nodded. “Iss important to keep yer mahnd… ohn the jahb.”
“Before I start” Katie interrupted, “where’s Chapps?”
Carlton’s laughter boomed like a shotgun, making Katie jump. He pointed up into the branches of the live oak. Sure enough, there was Chapps, two thirds of the way up the tree, and apparently he was chasing a rooster.
“Isn’t he a little… heavy for tree climbing?”
“He knows what he’s doin’.” Carlton’s voice was deep and slow, surprisingly soothing. “And yew want to know what Ah’m doin’? Well, Ah’m making Car-oh-ly-nah Hash. Yew take the scraps of th’ pig that ain’t good enuff f’da barbecue, an yew stew ‘em with a spice blend passed down from yore mamaw’s mamaw, til it gets tender. In a weird way, Miss Mawss, it’s jes like pro wrasslin.”
Of course, it always comes back to pro wrestling.
“We got them Fairtex Boys, an’ them Purge fellers, as ar first real opponents. And Miss Mawss, t’be honest Ah ain’t got much for them Fairitaxes.”
Katie, who was an astute young woman, made a mental note that he mispronounced ‘Fairtex’ on purpose the second time after getting it right the first time. Chapps not so much, but Carlton seemed a good bit smarter than he let on.
“These Purge fellers, an’ their pretty little clownie girly doin’ that Pennywise cawsplay…”
Another mental note for Katie - Carlton knows enough about non-redneck subjects to be familiar with the concept of cosplay.
“Well, if yer’ gonna do th’ religion thang, an’ Ah personally keep my faith t’myself, what Ah’m sayin’ badly is, they got it all mixed up. Y’got the zombie mask, and th’ Luciferian names, an’ th’ assorted anti-Christian trappings, but then yer gonna preach hellfire an’ damnation straight. Lahke, which is it? It’s damn diserspectful either way, but at least pick one sahd an’ stick with it.”
“GAWT IM!” A bellow from above, a shower of leaves, and Chapps lands in the dirt with a crash, a struggling rooster in his hand, his forearm scratched and bleeding from the rooster’s claws.
“Yew sure did git ‘im, Chapps.” Carlton’s contrabass voice was tinged with sarcasm. “Now go clean yerself off an’ innerduce yerself to ar guest.”
Chapps looked Katie over, and his eyebrows craned up. He nodded his head, and bolted inside the shack still holding the rooster.
“Got nothin’ much for the Purge, an’ even less for Team Fairitax. Jus this. Out here on the flats, when we got somethin’ to celebrate, we make Hash. Jes lakh when we get inta that professional wrasslin’ ring.”
Carlton’s big mouth splits open in a grin.
“We’re gonna make some hash.”