Dirty South

Y’all walk into a maze of bushes, some ole hedges cut higher than you and Cash are tall and you wander through the cuts and turns as he tell you about some Greek man and a freak that had the head of a bull.

“Yeah, boy,” he say. “I like that history shit. You know what the Civil War is?”

You nod. But you don’t.

“Nigga, don’t lie. You know some peckerwood white folks used to keep us like hogs, right, and there was a big war ’cause of it. Don’t be all ignorant. Learn to read.”

You look at him. He is open and easy and you see all the holes and cracks that run from his face to his heart. The sky opens and begins to rain but Cash is drunk and shoeless and you don’t give two shits. He unzips his pants, whips out his dick, and starts pissin’ on the shrubs.

“Reason I’m sayin’ that,” he says, while you look away so he don’t think you a sissy. You notice the yellow Christmas lights clicking and burning off some balcony on his purple house. “Reason why is ’cause the man who was the peckerwood president of the Confederacy or some shit died in my house. My house, nigga. Ain’t that a trip? Wonder what that boy would think with the Red Hat crew all up in it?”

You nod and mumble you understand as you twist again into the hedge. When you look back up, the house is gone. Cash stumbles on and pulls the black do-rag from his bald head to wipe his armpits. He hands you a champagne bottle and it’s warm as piss. You don’t drink and he don’t notice.

“You made up your mind?” Cash asks.

You fold your arms inside each other. “I want three records. Want $500,000 up front.”

“That ain’t the way it work, kid.”

“Don’t try and jack me, Cash,” you say. You put some force behind his name. “You get that back in six months. And I want the house too. Want you to buy it outright from Teddy.”

“Thought you said it was yours.”

“You know what’s up. Don’t try to pull my dick.”

You want to be free of Teddy and Malcolm and that white dude Travers. You didn’t make Teddy’s play. Ain’t no reason to try and save his ass.

“You one hit, kid. ‘Signal 7’ ain’t comin’ round again.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and don’t take your eyes away.

“It’s better than bein’ dead,” he says.

“I ain’t afraid of you,” you say. “I can handle myself.”

You feel like you can’t breathe, like you in the green stomach of some dragon. The walls gettin’ close.

“You don’t need to be,” he says. He smiles, his teeth chrome. “Not of me.”