GrUeBERfest 09: Scars and Rubble - Tales from The Gravel Pit (511 hits)
Category: NoneRating: 2 on 19 reviews (Rate this item) (V)
Submitted by JoeyG (View user info) at 2009-10-14 17:35:50 EDT
"Let me tell y'all a little about life here in Ronston. I need to tell you, coz, hell, you need to know just how it was back then.
If you were a man in the small town of Ronston, Alabama (a real man, that is, not some wet-behind-the-ears piss-hole, all scared to get his hands dirty) then there was only one place you worked.
The mining pit on the outskirts of town employed just about every fit-to-work man there was in the area. Working at that pit was dirty, dangerous, down-right fuckin' foul at the best'a times, and fuck me backwards, that weren't the best'a times, not the best'a times at all.
Come, sit. Park your ass and take yoursel' a sip'a water, it gets mighty hot this time'a year, and aint no shade to skulk your ass off to when ya starts t' sweat.
You see, life was hard, back then. You made damn sure your ass was outta bed at five, and you was at that pit by six, else yo' ass weren't gonna be at that pit no longer, you see what I'm sayin'? And you made sure that yo' ass toiled at that pit for everythin' it was worth, coz there weren't no room for slackers and jaw gabbers, believe me. There must'a been a hunnerd guys or more that would'a sold their souls to work at that pit, so there was no shortage of people who could have filled yo' place at the drop'a hat.
You came to the pit, y'all would bust yo' nuts, and y'all prayed that you'd make it through that day alive, so that by the end of the week you could pick up yo' paycheck.
Yeah, it was hard work alright. Mighty hard work indeed. I still's got all the scars I had from working in that godforsaken pit. No, no, they're not big scars, but I still rememb'a how I got each and ever' one of 'em.
And it's scars I wanna talk to y'all about.
Great big scars. Scars that run deep, not just on yo' skin, but scars that run right down into yo' soul.
I wanna talk about the scars on Pete Wilmore, who came to join that pit back in fifty-three. Here, take another sip'a water, and I'll tell y'all about it....."
*~*~*~*~*~
Ronston Mining Field, July 1953
Pete Wilmore moved to Ronston from his home town in Tallapoosa County in the spring of '53. After making a good start in life, a hell of a good start in fact, he had taken one hell of a tumble down the open elevator shaft of fate, and had been chewed up, spat out, and pissed on by whatever demons were dwelling at the bottom.
At twenty-four, he had married his high school sweetheart, Sandra DeCoste.
At twenty-five, he passed his bar exam and Sandy's Dad had taken him in as a junior lawyer in the firm to which he was the major partner. At twenty-six, Sandy gave birth to Ellie-May (Pete never had no particular fancy for the name, but it was Sandra's Grandmother's name, and he knew it made her happy).
At twenty-seven, his wife and daughter had been buried, and he was now facing a long stretch of purgatory, toiling at the rock face in the Ronston Mining Pit, where his knuckles would bleed, and his heart would slowly seep out of his body and into the grimy, dusty fissures of the ground on which he now stood.
He took the hard-hat and pick that he was given, and was told "not to go anywhere fuckin' near that thar explosives shed, gotta start with the small shit firs', you understand me, boy?"
Pete understood, and in the hundred degree heat of the Alabama landscape, he went to work, picking and scraping, and hauling barrows of rocks from one side of the pit to the other. He had been assigned to a small crew which he was to work with, and learn from. Apparently, there was a lot more to carting boulders around than there was to cross-examining witnesses in a court of law.
As to putting up with the constant staring at his face, there was nothing that could ever, would ever change in that respect, no sirree.
That first morning's work on the pit was hard, hard as hell, and by the time the steam whistle blew to signal lunch hour, Pete's back was a mess with knotted muscles, his face was burned from the blazing sun, and his arms were road maps of jagged cuts and scrapes from the harsh, unforgiving stone which he had shifted.
"Hey, Pete, c'mon. Lunch time. Come sit with the guys, we got us a few boulders over here where you can park ya ass for a spell. Catch ya breath, look like you need it."
Pete nodded, and joined the rest of the crew as they sat in an alcove of recently blasted cliff-face. Lunch buckets were pulled in between people's legs, the lids withdrawn, in an old, tired manner. Sandwiches were pulled from the buckets, some containing peanut butter and jello, some with leftover turkey from the previous night's dinner, some with nothing more than a slab of the mystery meat that had been hiding at the back of the 'fridgerator for a week with a slather of mustard stuck to its ass.
"So," offered Pete. "What do you guys talk about, when you get the chance, that is."
The group stared at Pete, and it was Smokey Bill who spoke up first. He was chasing a cigar in between bites of a folded sandwich, hence his nickname.
"Well, when we gets us the chance, we like to talk about all kinds'a shit. It's a mighty chore, picking away at that rock face like we do, so when we gets us the chance, we like to....well, we like to try and take our minds off it.
I can spin a yarn or two ma'self, and ol' George Farlan could tell ya a hunnerd different tales...prolly a million, if he was here to say so 'iself. But as you're new, he'll just chew your goddam ear off about the war, mostly. He really likes to hear 'iself talk, does Georgie.
But this is your stage, young'un. You must have a tale or two to tell ya'self."
Pete shook his head from side to side and dropped the remaining crust of his sandwich back in to his bucket.
"Naw," said Pete, thinking deeply. "Naw, I aint got no stories that you guys'd wanna hear."
"Well, why dont'cha tell us all how you got that thar scar across yo' face?" It was Brent Harlan who first spoke up about the ragged lines that raked across the face of Pete Wilmore. Pete had noticed the looks that the crew had passed in his direction, and he knew it was only a matter of time before someone asked the question.
A bright red scar poked up from Pete's collar, and traced a calloused line up across his cheek, branching off in several small streams, but really ploughed a puckered mash of flesh up to the bottom of his eyelid, and somehow emerged from the other side in a gash that went up his forehead and disappeared into the tangle of his auburn hairline.
"Y'know fellas, there are some things that are betta left unsaid, if y'all know what I mean."
"Bullshit, there is", said Harlan. "One thing ya learn real quick in this pit, is that what get said in the pit, stays in the pit. Aint that right, fellas?"
Pete glanced up and saw the chorus of solemn nods from the group around him.
"Just take ol' Jimmy The Hat here," Harlan continued, waving a gnarled hand at an old individual at the corner of the group. "I won't go int'a why he's called 'The Hat', that's his own tale t' tell, and I'm sure we'll all hear it again soon, if just for yo' benefit.
He's got some skeletons in his closet that'll make your toes curl up, stuff that'd put him stuffed away in Bibb County state pen, should the Feds find out...that is, if his wife didn't kill his ass firs', aint that right Jim!"
Jimmy half laughed, half hacked up a wad of brown chewing tobacco, nodding in agreement.
Pete stared Harlan straight in the eye. "It aint that I don't wanna share with you fella's... it's just that if I do go through with it, aint a cat's chance in hell y'all would believe one chicken-fuckin' word of it."
A low chuckle rippled through the group of soot-caked faces.
"Son... there aint nothing you could tell us that'd stir a shake in our tails....." whispered Smokey Bill. "There aint nothin' at'all."
And with that, Pete Wilmore leaned forward, and told the story of how he got his scar.
*~*~*~*~*~
Alexander City, Alabama, October 1952
Pete Wilmore had been a rising prosecutor at DeCoste, Pascow & Willam. He had been given some of the more tranquil cases to begin with, cases that had already been sewn up tighter than a duck's ass.
But he had impressed, and in a place like Alexander City, impression was what it was all about. His first court appearance had wowed both the jury and the bar, and the press attention that followed the case held nothing but admiration for the fiery young man who had done his bit to see that Harry Waltham was now looking at ten years behind bars for his part in a botched robbery and abduction that had left an innocent bystander dead in the gutter, with a hole the size of a walnut in his head.
Pete Wilmore's confidence grew with every sentence that was handed down because of the long hours he had spent at the firm's offices downtown. He was a fucking winner, a real fucking winner. He knew it. His bosses knew it. Hell, the whole fucking city knew it.
So when the time came for the trial of Michael Wharton, a minister for 'Our Lady Of Serene Peace' who was charged with the rape-murder of three young Catholic choir girls, there was really only one man for the job.
Henry DeCoste, Sandy's Father, tossed the file onto Pete Wilmore's desk. He took a seat, and spoke to Pete in a grave tone that he had rarely used before.
"You've done good s'far, son, real good. I'm proud'a you, I really am. You've worked yo' ass off, and I'm mighty proud'a that. But this here..."
Henry DeCoste waved his arms over the file which he had thrown at his Son in Law's desk.
"This....this is something else. I need you to look me in the eye, son. I need you to look me in the eye and tell me you can handle this pile'a shit. If you can't, well I'd unnerstan' that. This is one hell'a mess we got oursel's here, and I need to know if yo' ass is up for the job. So whaddy'a say?"
Pete looked up, and stared the Father of his bride right in the eye. He could see his own reflection in those dark eyes.
"You bet yo' ass I can handle it..."
Henry nodded, and lifted his substantial can from the seat in which he had flopped just a few moments before.
"Tha's what I thought." He clapped Pete on the shoulder as he walked away, back to his own, much superior office.
The pre-trial frenzy was a furore that was unheard of in Alexander City. All eyes were on the case. Especially the eyes of Henry DeCoste. He was taking a gamble, and he knew it. There were several other lawyers in the firm that had long, solid histories. But he was laying not just his reputation, but his firm on the line with this one.
Pete Wilmore knew exactly how much was riding on this case. He also knew that there were other guys just waiting to take his place the moment he fucked up. So when he received an anonymous call, stating that the congregation of 'Our Lady Of Serene Peace' was holding a meeting that very night, in a not-so-secret spot just a few blocks away, Pete decided he would go alone, oh-so-much-the-better-for-lying-to-the jury-my-dear.
He pulled up his battered old Sedan Deville, outside of a derelict tenement block. A moment of surreality washed over him, as his stepped out of the car and looked down the steps which appeared to lead to a town house basement. Angelic voices drifted up to the street level, and melted into his ears, a sickly sweet melody that permeated his mind like taffy.
In a semi, sleep-like state, Pete followed the hypnotic sound down the steps, down, down, and then opened the rotten wooden door, and ambled along the corridor that was caked with filth and shit and trash and graffiti that read "FUCK THE RAGHEADS" and "BRYONY BLOWED ME, TOO".
Water run down the walls of the corridor, and Pete guessed that by the smell, it sure wasn't Evian.
Still in his entranced state, he stepped into an open room, and that was when two scabrous hands clutched at his head, and drove talons into his skull, like stout nails into a piece of mildewed plank-wood.
The hands seemed to pull his brain in a thousand different directions at once. The nails digging into his very brain felt cold, icy, and a chill dripped down his spine, and settled in pools at the soles of his feet.
With a sudden snatch, his head was pulled toward a door he hadn't seen before. The door was dark, hidden, almost camouflaged, so that you would never see it unless you really wanted to see it.
The clawed hands which seized his scalp pulled him head first down a steep stone stairwell. The air was fetid, and Pete began to wish that he could smell the piss-stained hall that had filled his nose only moments before.
His head cracked against a giant set of wooden doors, and his peripheral vision noted that he was now being dragged through a giant, monastic temple. The pin-pricks which had invaded his skull relented, and threw him toward the back of a line of naked, weeping bodies. Pete glanced back, and saw nothing but a pair of skeletal hands disappear like mist from an Autumn lawn.
But there were plenty of screams to replace the unseen hands. The screams abated momentarily, and a man in priest's robes pointed at a naked man to Pete's left, and uttered a silent command.
Suddenly, the man who had been pointed out jerked forward, as if jolted by some unseen force. As he struggled against whatever invisible entity held him, bright crimson stripes ripped down his back, as the talons that weren't there scraped their way down his spine.
The man was hoisted into the air, and then slammed down hard onto the floor, and there was a crunching snap that smacked through the room as his skull collided with the unforgiving flagstones. The force held the man pinned to the floor, with his arms above his head, and his legs splayed wide.
Two other robed men appeared from behind the priest, carrying between them a large mahogany box, covered with ancient looking carvings that seemed beyond the age of life itself. As the box was placed at the feet of the prostrate figure, the first priest began to speak.
"For over three hundred years, we Brothers of Our Lady have prayed against the sins of mankind. And when our prayers are unanswered, we take action. Do you repent for your sins, my brother?"
When the man on the floor, dazed from the knock to his head, offered no reply, a deep red split began to slowly appear across his belly, and blood so thick it was nearly black began to spill out from his guts. The man screamed, screamed a deep wailing cry that Pete had never heard emanate from any human being before.
"I said," the priest continued, "do you repent, brother?!"
"YES! YES! I REPENT, I DO!"
The priest smiled, and nodded. "Good...now, let's just see how much you really do..."
The dark wooden box clicked upon, the lid began to rise, and an acrid mist seeped out from the murky depths.
Pete watched this, transfixed by what he was seeing, but not believing. A small shrunken head began to appear from the box, and slumped its rotten chin on the lip of the opening. The eyes in the face were purest black, and filled with evil. The mouth, which was full of rotten yellow teeth drooled, and began to gnash wildly at the air, the teeth clacking madly as the jaw pistoned up and down.
Then, the head appeared to roll forward out of the open box, and what followed behind it, attached the base of the thing's neck was the long, serpentine body of a snake.
The snake's skin was muddy brown and small stony protrusions clung to its length like barnacles. It slithered up the man's leg, the human face snapping its ugly teeth up and down as it went. It came to a stop at the man's crotch, and lunged forward at the exposed sack.
The front teeth of the head/snake thing seized around a testicle, and like a dog tossing a piece of meat from the front of its muzzle to the side, jerked its head, and the ball was gripped tightly between its crumbling back molars. The thing hissed, and bit down. There was a soft resistance, and it bit down again. Hard.
There was a thick, wet popping sound, like a balloon filled with treacle bursting. This sound was distinct, even above the screams from the man on the floor. The human face on the reptile now had thick blood and a puplish-grey matter trickling down from the corner of its mouth, which was still tightly latched to the man's groin. Another snap and the rest of the man's sack was in the thing's mouth. One more of those dog-like jerks, and there was nothing left but a scarlet hole where the man's groin had been.
The invisible hands which had restrained the man now lifted his legs high, exposing his backside. The snake, with its hideous human head, continued gnashing and shoved its face into the man's anus. It burrowed, like a worm working its way through soil, and the ass eventually gave way, accepting the gory creature against its will. The body of the reptile thrashed back and forth, inching slowly inside the body of the man, whose screams had now given way to unconsciousness. A few more seconds, and the snake with the human head had disappeared inside completely.
The priest nodded, content, as the man was dragged away by the air.
"And now," he said, turning towards Pete Wilmore. "What do YOU have to repent, my brother?"
Pete felt a small breeze, and he was thrown forward to where the man had lain only moments before.
"What do you see, brother?" asked the priest. "Look up, and tell me what you see."
Pete glanced upward at the roof above him, and saw a cross embedded in the ceiling. It wasn't the T shaped cross of Christ, but a solid X.
Tied to the X was Sandy. A rope was around her naked waist, and the rope dangled down. At the end of the rope, a noose snugly held the neck of Ellie May. The baby's stomach had been sliced, and loops of intestine spilled out, hanging in the air below her feet, not quite wanting to fall.
The priest noticed Pete's expression, and continued. "We Brothers of Our Lady have worked for time upon time to seek a better life. And when people interfere with our business, we take a stern view on the matter. When people make us their business, we make them our business, as you can see."
The sound of a testicle collapsing beneath grimy teeth echoed in Pete's brain, and he lurched toward the door through which he had been dragged.
The invisible claws clutched at his throat, but he was too quick. Unseen claws tried to grasp his face, but only succeeded in pulling away strips of flesh, the sharpened fingertips trying to gouge at the eye socket, but missing by a hairline.
Free from the grip, Pete ran.
He ran through the doors, and he ran up the stairwell. He ran back through the trash-strewn corridor, and ran back up to the street. His face was bleeding, bleeding badly, but he still ran. Ran past his Sedan.
Pete ran for his very life.
*~*~*~*~*~
Ronston Mining Field, July 1953
"And so I ran. I ran for my fucking life, and when I stopped running, I was here. See, I knew you guys wouldn't believe this shit....."
Smokey Bill crushed his third cigar beneath his boot, as the steam whistle indicated it was time to get back to work.
"Well," said Bill. "It's' a pretty tall tale, alright. But we've heard taller. And besides....us Brothers of Our Lady have heard it all before."
The crew descended on Pete, and dragged him toward the explosive shed, with its shadowy door that you only could see if you wanted to see.
Because Pete still had some repenting to do.
User Reviews
Submitted by SgtHartman (user info) at 2009-10-16 11:11:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
just read this.....holy shit man.
Submitted by august_sobriquet (user info) at 2009-10-16 09:06:41 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
whoa
Submitted by icarus1987 (user info) at 2009-10-15 18:32:30 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Auto testicle popping snake+2
Submitted by Berty (user info) at 2009-10-15 11:37:04 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Wince-some.
Submitted by GroundHorse (user info) at 2009-10-15 11:22:38 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Your post got a second label.
Submitted by sicosemen (user info) at 2009-10-15 08:34:35 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I bet you fuck like a rocking chair gone motorized now don't you, Sonny?
Submitted by monkeyswithguns (user info) at 2009-10-15 07:52:45 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by EmissionImpossible (user info) at 2009-10-15 04:22:42 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
if i wasnt incapapble of reading, i may have read this
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2009-10-15 03:17:17 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2009-10-15 00:25:11 BST (#)
Ranking: 2
Pic wouldn't load. Doesn't matter. Excellent read
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Yeah, I'm not sure what happened. Either my PC or Uber was having a funny turn, as when I clicked on 'hook me up', it hung for nearly 5 minutes. It was just a picture of a mining pit, you're not missing out on much.
Submitted by ridiculous (user info) at 2009-10-15 02:10:39 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
+2 Kicker of all ass
Great story, well written and I love the accented style. Looking forward to your next post.
Submitted by rob_berg (user info) at 2009-10-15 01:14:55 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
For the record: I would totally enjoy meeting you.
Submitted by Ducky (user info) at 2009-10-15 01:11:51 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I had to read this out loud to get the full effect. It was amazing.
Submitted by AshK (user info) at 2009-10-14 23:22:50 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
One of the best things I've ever read here...and I've read a LOT of good shit here over the years.
Submitted by TuTs (user info) at 2009-10-14 21:05:47 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
This went very nicely with my morning coffee.
Submitted by willartstorg (user info) at 2009-10-14 19:50:49 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
I am impressed. I say, I say, Ya gots talent, boy.
Submitted by peckerhead (user info) at 2009-10-14 19:34:29 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Good and long; long and GOOD.
Submitted by skrapmetal (user info) at 2009-10-14 19:25:11 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
Pic wouldn't load. Doesn't matter. Excellent read.
Submitted by JoeyG (user info) at 2009-10-14 17:56:03 EDT (#)
Ranking: 0
I enjoyed writing this. Hope it gives other people the same sick feeling it gave me when I tapped out the finishing scenes.
Best'a luck to Hornet, I look forward to his (His? I'm assuming Hornet is a guy, apologies if I'm wrong) piece, I've enjoyed his stories.
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2009-10-14 17:51:56 EDT (#)
Ranking: 2
God fuckin DAMN!
Enjoyed this immensely!
Damn!