The Dog Boy called Quill ape hurled the double-bladed axe across the rutted road with such force that when it impacted the big dying elm, the tree cracked like an explosive and split in two. The crowd of other boys ewwed and ahhed. Quill was a couple of years older than the seven or eight other kids gathered at a rowdy grove of mesquite trees a mile or so from Teague's castle towering behind them between two red caliche hills. Jeeezus, one of them bellowed, Quill, you're a fucking monster! He gave them an arrogant sneer then reached for his jacket with an arm tattooed in a sleeve of dragons and violent streaks of lightning. Two of the youngsters crossed the road to admire the sight up close when Timothy Teague's battered Ford diesel came roaring out of the draw, throwing dust and pebbles as it braked. Clancey sat in the driver seat, looking scolded, gripping the wheel with leather workman's gloves.
I thought Tim told you you weren't welcome out here anymore, he barked. The other boys sank into reticent postures and began gathering the various tools that lay about the ground. Quill donned his jacket and gave Clancey a blank look, a dumb look. Load up! Clancey told the others, Tim wants us up at the house. He kept his eyes, now hidden behind black shades, on Quill who was still staring. As any pack of hunting dogs, the Dog Boys leaped and jockeyed their forms into the vehicle, tools banging, muted grumblings swarming.
Clancey raised his hands in mock confusion. What the fuck? why are you still here? Quill just stood his ground with the same dumb look on his rutty face attached to his thick muscular roast of a neck. Clancey exited the truck, the huge chain in his hand chattering across the step as he went. The fat hook clasped to the last link hit the ground with the sound of a lifeless body. The boys in the Ford were silent and sweating, expressionless faces like dirty alley cats. Get the fuck off the ranch, Quill, you're out; you know the rules; now get movin before I move ya my own damn self. Quill spat a wad of phlegm into the dust where it landed in the likeness of a fleshy bullet hole. I'll be seein ya, Clancey. Not if I see you first.
I thought Tim told you you weren't welcome out here anymore, he barked. The other boys sank into reticent postures and began gathering the various tools that lay about the ground. Quill donned his jacket and gave Clancey a blank look, a dumb look. Load up! Clancey told the others, Tim wants us up at the house. He kept his eyes, now hidden behind black shades, on Quill who was still staring. As any pack of hunting dogs, the Dog Boys leaped and jockeyed their forms into the vehicle, tools banging, muted grumblings swarming.
Clancey raised his hands in mock confusion. What the fuck? why are you still here? Quill just stood his ground with the same dumb look on his rutty face attached to his thick muscular roast of a neck. Clancey exited the truck, the huge chain in his hand chattering across the step as he went. The fat hook clasped to the last link hit the ground with the sound of a lifeless body. The boys in the Ford were silent and sweating, expressionless faces like dirty alley cats. Get the fuck off the ranch, Quill, you're out; you know the rules; now get movin before I move ya my own damn self. Quill spat a wad of phlegm into the dust where it landed in the likeness of a fleshy bullet hole. I'll be seein ya, Clancey. Not if I see you first.
Edit 12.3.2018