Several years' back, I rode with a friend to PJ's, a redneck bar across the river in Louisiana. It wasn't my idea, but Louisiana's drinking age was 18 at the time, which was reason enough. I was in town visiting some of my friends and that's where they all were that night. PJ's was a "special" type of bar that was divided down the middle by a wall. One side was a country-western bar, with everything but the mechanical bull and the hay. The other side was more of a pool hall that played cutting edge classic rock. The people on that side usually had the Mansonesque, glazed look in their eyes that said,
"Lynyrd Skynyrd is God and Ronnie Van Zant died for the sins of the Southern Man. Freebird! Freebird! Sweet Home Alabama! Sweet Home Alabama!"

On any given night, four or more drunken redneck heroes would smash the hell out of each other in the gravel parking lot, and occasionally the fight would spread into the surrounding cotton or soybean fields. My friend Mike and I decided to give one of his friends a ride home. We'll call this friend Marvus. Well, Marvus had already given back to mother earth all the barley and hops that she had consumed that night and she moved in the mixed jerky and fluid motion that comes from being several beers too close to alcohol poisoning. After about fifteen minutes of pressing her disproportionately large breasts against me while trying to convince me that I was her husband and that it was my duty as her husband to satisfy her sexual needs, she decided to take a more direct approach and grabbed a handful of my crotch. I reacted quickly and had my back pressed against the roof of the cab of Mike's pickup screaming something to the effect of, "No! Off limits! Don't touch!" while miming "don't touch" and drawing safe-zone boxes around my waist.

After a brief explanation that I was not going to sleep with her, Marvus started talking about her horses. She couldn't really trust her family to take care of her horses. She seemed quite surprised that I had never ridden one before ... then she started to share a little bit too much.

"After Kevin and I make love he goes down the hall and gets fucked by my sister. There they are right next to mom and dad's bedroom screwing. Well, at least I get him first. When they got at it, after I'm finished with him, she's getting bits of me shoved inside her. Kevin and I make love; she's just a fuck. She gets seconds. I'm with him first."

This went on for about ten minutes, her screaming this same comment over and over again with just minor rephrasing. What the hell do you say?

"Sorry your husband's boffing your sister. Well, I'm glad you're first in line to ride that Magic Mountain that is your husband (I understand that the husband, forget his name, is and was rather overweight)."

But while I was trying to summon a correct response, and had almost pieced together what seemed like an appropriate comment, she started sharing more.

It appears that something good has come of her marriage. Keep in mind that she and her husband had, when he was in town, lived in Marvus's old room in her parent's trailer. Well, it appears that since Marvus got married her father stopped his late night visits with her. Which, to me, explains quite a bit. I was never good friends with Marvus in high school but we did have quite a number of mutual friends. I remember that Marvus hardly ever spent a night at her house. Now I know why. These late night visits had lasted roughly a decade before she got married and they stopped. Marvus was fairly certain that they stopped because her dad was afraid her husband would kick his ass. She was also uncertain as to whether her father had moved on to sleeping with her sister, much like the way the husband does.

Mike and I eventually poured Marvus onto the front porch of her parents' trailer and left her to fend for herself in trying to get the key to work in the lock. This much she should be able to handle and get through by herself.

Chris currently resides in Vicksburg, MS.
He has traveled the South extensively and will be sharing
his strange tales each month from across the Mason Dixon line.