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  The assortment of vehicles parked around the building spoke for the member’s economic status, as much as did the rugged apparel they wore. Motorcycles, old pickup trucks and pre-1990 dented and faded cars, parked underneath the massive hanging limbs of the 100-year-old live oak tree. A few of the pickups had dog cages in back to carry deer dogs to hunting sites. Local bikers in leather mingled alongside the area’s finest, who for the most part wore bib overalls. Bikers, fisherman, and farmers exemplified an odd combination of humankind. Two of the bike members sported long scraggly handlebar mustaches turned down at the ends.

  Budweiser topped the list of preferred drinks, but moonshine was a close second. Peter Duel had brought some of his famous “quality-shine,” for all to enjoy. The locals swore by it. In their opinion, it was superior to 100 Proof Jack Daniels. The formality of pouring the delicacy into shot glasses was never a consideration with Peter’s shine. Instead, the jar passed from person to person for a nip. Moonshine etiquette dictated that each person takes one good swallow, smack their lips, squint the eyes, and shake the head, all at the same time. Finally, a comment such as, “damn old Peter’s stuff is good,” or woo-wee,” would be in order. Then the next connoisseur down the line would do the same. After 45 minutes or so, the same ritual would resume, until the jar was empty. Tonight, Peter brought three-quart jars of his elixir, so the process would be repeated several times before most of the men were “knockdown, drag out” drunk.

  T.J. Beckett, Junior, the club treasurer, arrived in his faded, rusty, and dented blue ’85 Chevy Pickup. T.J.’s real name was Telford Jeremiah, but his parents shortened it to T.J. to distinguish it from his father’s name. Then, his friends shortened it further, by calling him Tee. Tee was laid back and easy going most of the time. He made his living planting and selling 40 acres of watermelons from his pickup at Ken Smoke’s Shell Gas station in Warrenton. He also planted a variety of vegetables and sweet potatoes, which he was able to sell to people at the gas station. Tee owned a boat and strung nets across the Combahee River, where he caught shad to sell to small restaurants along Highway 17. Shad roe was a season delicacy, especially when fried in pure lard, which nowadays was hard to find. It was a good thing that off the shelf Crisco was a good substitute. It was more sought after than fine Russian Beluga roe in the restaurants of Paris. He made a pretty good living from his various bucolic activities. Supplemented by a small monthly social security check, the 68-year-old was living pretty well. Overall, he was above the economic scale of most people around the area. As busy as he was with his farming venture, he still made time to contribute to the chaos and mischievous activities of the Cobbs.

  Tee’s hate for the Geechees was ingrained at an early age. His father had a maintenance job in Warrenton, and the family lived in an area called Jonesville. They were the only white family for miles. When Tee was about 10 years old, there were two Geechee boys, who would always bully him. One of them, Ajay, was several years older than Tee. Ajay never passed up the opportunity to make “white trash” slurs at Tee when they saw each other. One time Ajay and his buddy Amos, bloodied Tee’s nose and shoved him in the ditch. Ajay threatened to smash more than his face if Tee told his parents. He didn’t of course, since he was horribly afraid of the two bullies. The juvenile behavior continued until Ajay’s parents moved, but Tee’s opinion of all geechees had been cemented by this time. Over the years, the racially charged Southern environment helped reinforce his prejudice.

  When Oats went to prison for his part in the killing of two young boys, Tee was elected by members as president of the Cobbs. In spite of his lisp, he did his best to organize the bunch of off beats and drunks.

  The meeting of the club was supposed to begin at 6:00 PM, but tonight Tee let the boys drink and carry on their rancorous revelry for an extra hour or so after the scheduled meeting time. Around 7:00 PM, he closed the bar for the duration of the formal meeting such as it was. By that time, just about everybody was well on their way to being drunk, and as a result, the meeting wound up being nothing more than a disorganized shouting match.

  The major event was to recognize a new member. Most members were never formally inducted into the club. Tee thought it might give the boys a little more ownership of the club if he held a formal ceremony to recognize the new member. Everyone knew the new person was being brought in by Big Al. If any other member recommended someone, no one would dare oppose the membership. In any event, the club had no official roster. To record member’s name in writing may tie them to some of the nefarious deeds in which the club was often involved. Tee had learned this from his experience in the KKK. Initiating the new person was no more ceremonious than introducing them as the newest member.

  Several of the men didn’t hear the introduction or much else for that matter because they were nodding off from the first round of drinking, regaining energy to begin round two. After about 45 minutes of chastising the recently elected “liberal Governor,” the “dumb” President and a few other politicians, everyone was getting tired of Tee’s hair lipped jabber. Finally, he lisped, “this meeting is adthorned, God tless America, and God tless the Thational Rifle Athoociation.”

  Every member stood up and yelled, clapped and stomped the floor, almost bringing the old house down. It was hard to tell if they were expressing their support for America or the NRA. Then most of them continued to drink, lament about how the nation is going to hell, and conspired to create enough evil acts, that if they were carried out, the state would have to call out the National Guard. Fortunately, when most of them sobered up the next day, the schemes they discussed the night before would lose their relevance.

  Chapter 16

  It seemed the recent caper by Chester, and the follow-up by the bikers had begun to take on an air of adventure that would be talked about as the prank of the century. While it may have been just one amusing stunt for the boys at Flood’s Place, it was a life-changing event in the lives of Strep and his family, including Topop who was not about to forget it.

  Initially, Strep was of the mind to forget it. However, after the episode of the bikers speeding around and threatening and his family, he was now fully on board with doing some kind of retribution. Topop’s idea of employing witchcraft was the only thing within his power. Pastor Pink had contacted the sheriff’s office about the incident but was unable to get much help.

  In fact, the pastor had a feeling officials were somewhat amused at the whole incident, rather than supportive of his complaint. Of course, he was right. As it turns out after receiving the call, the deputy fielding the call personally notified the sheriff. The sheriff took the report with amusement. With a smile on his face and chuckling as he casually dismissed the event.

  “Sheriff we got a call about some people harassing a family down near Flood’s Place on Hwy 17. Looks like some old boys were having a few too many beers and decided to drive their motorcycles around some Geechee’s house and spun a little mud on his porch.”

  “Typical Saturday night report on that crap hole down there---anything serious happen?”

  “Not really,” said the deputy, “you know, boys will be boys, especially on Saturday night.”

  “Well, I got more to worry about than a minor Saturday night party getting out of hand. Go ahead and take care of it and let me know if I need to do anything,” muttered the sheriff without looking up from papers on his desk. Even the sector deputy wasn’t asked to look into the complaint. So much for the complaint to law enforcement!

  Topop might have guessed as much. No matter, he was moving along with his own form of payback. By now Strep had come to believe that the only solution was to do his best to seek the resources of the Shelltown sorcerers.

  Seething with anger, Topop said, “Let’s go up the road to see if we can find Mr. Fuzz. I think he can help us do what we need to do to get back at ‘dem bastards, Strep.”

  “Yep, you say you know him. Let’s tell him all bout what’s been going on and see wat he can do.”

&n
bsp; “I want him to blast ‘em with both barrels of his magic powers, the white motherfuckers.”

  As soon as the old Honda carrying the two men turned right on Shelltown’s crossroads, they saw Moses Segan, otherwise known to everyone around as Fuzz, sitting on an old log under a pine tree beside the road. His constant companion was lying on the ground near him. Cricket was scratching fleas frantically on her stomach with one paw.

  Fuzz, could have passed for a character in a Hollywood movie. His moniker of Fuzz came from the perfectly rounded white beard covering his face—not scraggly but perfectly rounded and so white that it glistened in the sun. He wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. As the car pulled up in the open space beside the road, Cricket sounded a subdued “yip, yip,” then stretched out on the ground.

  “Good morning Mr. Fuzz, how you doing today? Topop always addressed older people using “Mr. or “Mez” in respect of their age. His mama had taught him to respect older people and be nice to them as long as they were nice to him.

  “I'm doin good as kin be spected for an ole man, Topop. Wat abot you and yo friend there?”

  “Just find right now, Mr. Fuzz. This here’s Strep, and we got some problems we need to discuss with you to see if you can help us out.”

  “Why be glad to do wat I can.”

  Sitting on the log, Topop spent the next 30 minutes going over Chester’s attack at Flood’s Place and the subsequent demonstration by the bikers riding around in front of Strep’s house. Fuzz just listened without saying a word. By the end of the story, Cricket had gotten up and crawled on the log beside Fuzz, putting her head flat on his lap and closing her eyes. Though her eyes were closed, she was listening intently to every word of the conversation. Cricket had a knack of understanding when people were in distress and when they were unhappy. She also knew Fuzz would consult her on any haint he may want to turn loose on anyone. No doubt, she was extremely smart for a canine.

  After going over the details, Topop kept imploring Fuzz for his help.

  “You gotta help us put a hex on ‘dem white boys wit ‘dem motorcycles. Pastor Pink called the sheriff, but I know the law won’t do nothin’. They never go against a white person here in the swamp. It’s up to you, Mr. Fuzz. If you don’t help us, Lord I don’t know what we gonna do.”

  “Well son, first I gotta think about it before we do anything. Puttin a curse on people is not a good thing, unless we really got a good cause, you know dat? Thing is, once you turn loose a curse, you don’t know where it’s gonna stop, and you can’t always control it.”

  “Yes Sir, Mr. Fuzz, but we got no other way to go and dem bike people done crossed the line. You gotta help us.”

  “OK, you come back in a couple of days, and I’ll see what I kin figger out.”

  With that, Topop and Strep were really upbeat and left Fuzz and Cricket sitting on the log as they drove off.

  Now alone, the dog lifted up her head and looked Fuzz directly in the eyes, and whiffed a couple of soft grunts. “Yep, I hear you. We gotta see if we can help dem boys, but we need some strong spirits. I don’t know if we can get the forces going strong enuff to do what they want. But all we kin do is try,” said Fuzz as he stared into the cloudy horizon.

  The next morning Fuzz visited one of his oldest friends in Shelltown. As they sat in two web chairs beneath a large umbrella, Fuzz speaking only in Yoruban, the native West African language, told his friend Oba Oyunkuji the story as related to him. Oba, with his ornate red robe in spite of the unbearable hot weather, sported dreadlocks pulled into a high ponytail, listened intently as Fuzz went through the story.

  The two men consulting in the ancient tongue made plans as to how they could carry out a spell on the white people. To some non-believers, this exercise may have sounded like a joke, but the drama unfolding was serious to the participants. To them, it was certainly no less of a joke than men who believed in Scientology, Christianity, or other forms of theology.

  After the men had talked for a while, a young girl dressed in a flowery skirt came out of one of the several small buildings nearby. She strolled in front of them and began dancing. This was part of the occult ceremony when Oba was working his magic. Fuzz did not see and was not aware of the entourage of people watching him and Oba talking all along.

  The group knew instinctively something serious was going down between the two men. Oba’s associates began their ceremony, as they had done many times before. The entire event was as though it had been just for Fuzz’s benefit—and it really was. The girl and subsequent participants could always sense when Oba was involved in serious business. They would react with ceremonial dancing that not only gave the whole affair a final blessing but also took the effort beyond a mystical flare.

  The girl tossed both hands to one side, then the other, in a dance reminiscent of the way her mother had performed many times in the past. The girl’s dancing got the attention of the other people in the village. Soon, without a spoken word, as many as twenty men, women, and children sat in a line on the ground and started waving their hands in unison with the girl.

  After a while, Oba was satisfied with the performance and bowed his head in approval, and the girl and others departed. Before they left the area, they moved to the nearby courtyard and gathered around a life-sized satanic statue. The seven-foot tall statue had a human body, the head of a goat, and large wings on its back. It had the breast of a woman, but the other features of its body appeared to be a man. The villagers never used a particular word to descript it. Occasionally, the statue would be referred to by visitors to the village, as the statue of Baphomet.

  The offering from the informal council of doom was all Fuzz needed to understand that his hex on the white bikers would be carried out. During their conversation, Oba informed Fuzz the final step to get the curse started would be to scatter the root of the Blood Plant around where the bikers congregated.

  The ancient ritual of placing the bloodroot where the victim had walked or visited was the trademark of the Shelltown clan and was like a payment for services rendered. The outcome may be soon, or it may be years, but it was now in place, and no earthly act could stop it.

  At this point, what form the curse would take was anybody’s guess. It was certain, however, some unfortunate happening was in store for the evil men.

  It didn’t matter to Topop and Strep how long it took, they were content the spell was in place. Little did they know, they would see results very soon.

  Chapter 17

  Fish Cleborn was seething about the money Homer and Henry owned him. He had given them a thousand dollars to buy corn and sugar. In exchange, they would make and provide him ninety gallons of moonshine. After giving them the cash, he was having second thoughts. He wished he had tried to buy the stuff himself and given it to them. He knew he had made a mistake when they missed their initial delivery time. He was irate at them for missing the deliveries.

  Homer and Henry had put him in a bad position with his customers. He knew, in this business, the only bond one had was his word, and through no fault of his own, he had broken this bond. All he could do now was to do his best to make it up. How he was at a loss to determine. He hadn’t figured yet what action he could apply to the idle threat he had made to them of, “make the delivery or else.”

  He walked down the path to the still site where he had gone several times before. Exiting the wooded area, he approached the still set up. Before him, the still equipment was laid out in its usual fashion. Several barrels sat around the area, and a few lay on the ground on their side. There was no fire beneath the copper still. The silence of the area was interrupted only by the tweet, tweet of a bird’s sound. Fish didn’t recognize it.

  Then he saw Homer and Henry sitting on a log. Homer had a jar of moonshine in his hand. He motioned Fish to come over and said, “come on over and have a drink Fish.”

  “What the hell is going on? Why are you two not making my whiskey like you promised?”

  “Let’s talk about that. Henry h
ere had a problem with his truck and had to use the money to get it fixed. We haven’t been able to get the sugar and corn yet, ‘cause we haven’t found any more money to buy it with.”

  Fish was infuriated. The three men continued to argue fiercely for several minutes. All three were shouting and threatening each other. Finally, Fish had had enough and said, “I’m leaving now you son-of-a-bitches. When I come back, you had better have my whiskey ready. I’ll be kicking some ass if you don’t.”

  As he departed, Homer said, “well guess we gotta figure something out Henry. Got any idea, how we gonna get some more sugar?”

  “Nope,” replied Henry nonchalantly lifting the jar to his mouth for another drink.

  Fish was so angry he just wanted to get the hell out of the area. He quickly returned to his vehicle and sped out across the field. His truck was bumping up and down on the uneven ground as it passed Nel’s Place. As it entered the main road, his tires spun dirt ten feet behind the pickup.

  When he passed, Mo was sitting outside enjoying an Orange Crush, into which he had poured a pack of salted peanuts. He loved the mix of the two ingredients. It was typical refreshment in the area. The peanuts went well with Dr. Pepper, Coca Cola, or about any other soft drink.

  Mo watched the fast moving pickup enter the road, but didn’t recognize it or its driver.

  Since Fish had seen the two men, the thought of the money Homer and Henry owed him was burning on his mind. Speeding down the road, he hoped that no one had seen him. He didn’t have a plan, but he had to get his money back or the whiskey they had promised one way or the other.