The Front Porch Prophet

Eugene’s Jeep was totally obliterated, and A.J. was forced to weave around large pieces of it. The Lover was up on its side and was missing some critical components. The hackberry tree was reduced to a splintered stump. Craters pocked the area. The door to the cabin opened, and out stepped Eugene wrapped in a blanket. Beside him limped Rufus, bandaged but still malicious. He made a start for A.J., but the sudden movement seemed to cause him pain. He abandoned the assault and sat down to nurse his wounds. Eugene absently patted him on the head.

“Don’t worry, boy,” he said to the dog. “You can attack A.J. twice next time.” Eugene moved slowly, and his breathing was labored. He was favoring his right arm, and his eyes had dark circles tinged with yellow. He shuffled to his chair and sat. He was fully dressed and wrapped in a blanket, but still he shivered. On the cable spool was a large quantity of marijuana along with the usual collection of medications, spirits, and firearm supplies. In addition, there were three hand grenades piled carelessly in a bowl. A.J. knew what had destroyed the clearing. Eugene spoke.

“I didn’t know if I’d see you today. I thought you might still be a little pissed.” He shifted in his chair, wincing with the movement. He seemed to be searching for a comfortable spot that was always just one step ahead. He looked bad.

“I wasn’t pissed,” A.J. replied, taking a seat. “I had to go rinse out a few things and take care of some long overdue correspondence.” He gestured to the carnage in the yard. “Someone run a little air strike in here? Slim finally figure out who got the bus?” Eugene picked up one of the grenades and handed it to A.J.

“These are great,” he said. “That bit about pulling the pin with your teeth is a crock of shit, though.” He pointed at the remainder of one of his incisors. “Broke this one. Hurt so bad I dropped the damn grenade. By the time I found it, I was a little pressed for time, and I barely got it thrown out of here. Almost blew up poor old Rufus. He took some shrapnel, but I got it out.” Rufus looked over at the mention of his name. A.J. felt a little bad for his canine foe. It must be difficult to be Eugene’s dog.

“Where did you get them?” A.J. asked, hefting the lethal object. It was heavier than he thought it would be.

“Bird Egg brought them to me. He’s been coming up a couple times a week with supplies, and he thought I would enjoy them.”

Bird Egg was an institution, a man whose mission in life was to never draw another sober breath. He was a local boy who had gone off to help Douglas MacArthur stamp out the Asiatic Hordes, and he had returned from the Korean peninsula with strong aversions to bitter cold, sudden death, and heavily armed yellow people wearing tennis shoes. He was currently in charge of Eugene’s beer joint and was the perfect man for the job. His duties included selling beer and liquor, playing cards, breaking up fights unless he was personally involved, and paying off Red Arnold, the ancient and venal county sheriff. He took no wages other than what he drank and ate, and he even left his substantial poker winnings in the general fund.

“Where did Bird Egg get hand grenades?” A.J. asked, handing the pineapple back to Eugene.

“I have an associate from Fort Benning who occasionally lays his hands on some interesting war surplus items.”

“War surplus?” asked A.J. “You could get thirty years for receiving stolen government goods.” Eugene rolled his eyes, and A.J.

realized his warning was foolish, given the circumstances.

“I’ll take it,” Eugene commented. He stood, pulled the pin, and hurled the grenade into the woods.

“Duck,” he said. He hit the deck gently, as if he were in slow motion. A.J. was not nearly as graceful as he kissed the floorboards. When the explosive went off, the porch shook, and bits and pieces of the forest landed in the clearing. A.J. was slow getting up. His ears were ringing, and his body tingled from the force of the blast. Eugene was grinning from ear to ear. “I just love these things,” he said. “Now you throw one. We can blow up your truck. I’ll buy you another one.”

“I like my truck.”

“Your problem is that you don’t know how to have fun,” Eugene said as he settled himself back into his chair. He attempted to light a cigarette, but his hands were shaking badly and he couldn’t manage. A.J. lit it for him.

“How is Bird Egg doing?” A.J. asked, changing the subject. He had not seen the old man in a while.

“He’s been stabbed again,” Eugene replied. “I found out about it yesterday. Red came up to tell me. He also told me that I’m closed down for a week.” He gazed at one of the craters in the yard.

“That’s no big deal,” A.J. said. “He’s always getting stabbed or shot. It’s a tradition with him.” It was true. Bird Egg had been winged often during his long, checkered time. He was opinionated and tended to incite strong emotions in others.