Wake up.
Mosquitoes fucking everywhere.
Goddamnit.
Fucking got drunk and left the window with no fucking screen open again.
Walk over to the fridge.
My house boat rocking gently in the blackwater.
Hear some splashing.
Fuckin’ Fred (8ft gator) just nailed the egret. Damn. Fuck that sumbitch.
Stupid asshole bird fucked up all my window screens and payday is two weeks away.
Open the fridge door.
No fucking beer.
Double Goddamnit.
Sigh.
Trash can (pile) is full of crushed Bud heavy cans.
Today is gonna be a long day.
I still hadn’t fixed the fan boat and I know Charlie is gonna be pissed.
House phone goes off. (I have fucking satellite c’mon I’m not a total dumbass)
Bossman Charlie.
“Boat fix yet?”
“Naw.”
“Gawdammit. Aight.”
Manage to find a half-pint of Jim Beam.
Throw on the radio.
CCR—Born On The Bayou. Wow.
Everytime I get this drunk I feel like I’m reborn.
Probably been reborn 5000 times by now.
Take a few hits of Jimmy.
25min later I hear it.
Loud ass whirring.
A small-block Chevy 350 at full-red line.
5000rpm and holding, longtube headers scaring the gators, coons, and whatever fucking snakes decided to crawl out of their goddamn holes.
I can barely make him out from the kitchen window.
No mistaking though, tallest black man I’ve ever seen.
Double denim crisp as hell.
Straw cowboy hat low.
He pulls up and it settles into an idle lumpier than a drunk man’s mashed potatoes.
In his own words, “Full rayce cam mofucka!”
Charlie’s fan boat.
Fuck.
Hand him the rest of the pint.
Time for work.