quickly that he failed to hear the creak of the board at the sill of the bedroom door.
“Roy,” his wife whispered suddenly, “there’s some-thin’...”
But Roy did not stir. And there was no more sound, except the radio’s drone, until his wife screamed at the top of her voice: “Oh my God! Roy! Where’s the gun at? Roy!”
With only the orange glow from the radio dial illuminating the room, events there were seen in the most obscure and unreal way — predominantly the horrific countenance of Big Nail, moving inexorably closer, and very fast, yet caught up for a terrible instant, highlighted in the radio-glow by a thousand beads of perspiration. The woman also moved quickly and was half out of the bed when the first blow of the rock in Big Nail’s hand struck her behind the ear with tremendous force, the heavy rock that then struck the man still in bed time and time again.
And the nasal twang of “Pappy” O’Daniel was unrelenting:
“Ah’ve heard Hi-wah-yans play
In the land of Wicky-Wacky
But ah must say
They can’t beat ‘Turkey in the
Straw,’ by cracky.”
Later that same year, “Pappy” O’Daniel ran for governor of Texas and was elected by a landslide.
X
U SING A RUSTY TIRE-IRON C.K. slowly pried the old corral fence-board, weathered and broken, away from the post, which creaked and groaned as the nails were gradually wrenched out of the hardwood post that had held the board for so many years.
Farther along the fence, Harold was attempting to remove another board, by executing a series of whirling karate type back-kicks in its direction.
Having taken off one board, C.K. picked up another one-by-six, aged but sound, and started nailing it in place. While he hammered he sang one abrupt verse, Paul Robeson style:
“Dere ain’t no ham-mah
Dat can ringa like mine, boy...”
Harold, having successfully connected with one of his kicks, yelled over at C.K.: “Hey, C.K.! Look! Kay- rotty de-fence! Aiee-ee!”
He attempted another whirling kick to demonstrate his technique on a broken section of fence-board, missed, and fell down in a graceless fashion.
“Dang it,” he said and got up quickly, brushing himself off.
C.K. laughed. “Say ‘Kay-whut kinda rotty fence’? Hee-hee...look like you ‘Kay’ ain’t no good ’gainst this rotty ole fence, hee-hee-hee!”
He resumed hammering and singing, while Harold glared at him, before blurting out: “You can’t sing worth a dang, C.K.! What kinda dumbell old nigger-song is that anyhow?”
C.K. looked at him with half-closed eyes and assumed a mockingly supercilious tone: “Well, that there jest happen to be a ver’ famous ole Negra-song — sung by famous ole Negra slaves...all obah dis worl’.”
Harold, still rubbing his knee, didn’t laugh. “I reckon you think you’re bein’ smart, don’t you?”
And C.K. got slightly annoyed in turn.
“No,” he said quietly, “but ah tell you what ah do think — ah think we bettah git on with this fence patching ’fore you daddy come out an’ start kickin’ ass — namely, you ass an’ mine!”
Harold frowned darkly. “Dang it, sometime I can’t believe how crazy you are! Now watch this and learn something! This is Kung Fu Kay- rotty, a really old and ancient art of defense.”
He took a careful stance, and tried the kick again.
“Aiee-eee!”
This time he managed to connect, and knocked off a dangling piece of the rotten fence-board.
“See there,” he said, brushing his hands, “‘ Kay- rotty de fense!’ That’s what they call that! I’ll show you how to do it some time.”
“Awright,” said C.K., “ah could use myself some good de- fense.”
“Yeah,” said Harold with a short laugh, “you ain’t just a’wolfin’ you could — from what I hear tell.”
“Say what?”
“You heard me.”
“Ah hear you tryin’ to signify somethin’ you don’t know what you tryin’ to signify — that’s what ah hear.”
“Yeah, well I heard that you’re
“Roy,” his wife whispered suddenly, “there’s some-thin’...”
But Roy did not stir. And there was no more sound, except the radio’s drone, until his wife screamed at the top of her voice: “Oh my God! Roy! Where’s the gun at? Roy!”
With only the orange glow from the radio dial illuminating the room, events there were seen in the most obscure and unreal way — predominantly the horrific countenance of Big Nail, moving inexorably closer, and very fast, yet caught up for a terrible instant, highlighted in the radio-glow by a thousand beads of perspiration. The woman also moved quickly and was half out of the bed when the first blow of the rock in Big Nail’s hand struck her behind the ear with tremendous force, the heavy rock that then struck the man still in bed time and time again.
And the nasal twang of “Pappy” O’Daniel was unrelenting:
“Ah’ve heard Hi-wah-yans play
In the land of Wicky-Wacky
But ah must say
They can’t beat ‘Turkey in the
Straw,’ by cracky.”
Later that same year, “Pappy” O’Daniel ran for governor of Texas and was elected by a landslide.
X
U SING A RUSTY TIRE-IRON C.K. slowly pried the old corral fence-board, weathered and broken, away from the post, which creaked and groaned as the nails were gradually wrenched out of the hardwood post that had held the board for so many years.
Farther along the fence, Harold was attempting to remove another board, by executing a series of whirling karate type back-kicks in its direction.
Having taken off one board, C.K. picked up another one-by-six, aged but sound, and started nailing it in place. While he hammered he sang one abrupt verse, Paul Robeson style:
“Dere ain’t no ham-mah
Dat can ringa like mine, boy...”
Harold, having successfully connected with one of his kicks, yelled over at C.K.: “Hey, C.K.! Look! Kay- rotty de-fence! Aiee-ee!”
He attempted another whirling kick to demonstrate his technique on a broken section of fence-board, missed, and fell down in a graceless fashion.
“Dang it,” he said and got up quickly, brushing himself off.
C.K. laughed. “Say ‘Kay-whut kinda rotty fence’? Hee-hee...look like you ‘Kay’ ain’t no good ’gainst this rotty ole fence, hee-hee-hee!”
He resumed hammering and singing, while Harold glared at him, before blurting out: “You can’t sing worth a dang, C.K.! What kinda dumbell old nigger-song is that anyhow?”
C.K. looked at him with half-closed eyes and assumed a mockingly supercilious tone: “Well, that there jest happen to be a ver’ famous ole Negra-song — sung by famous ole Negra slaves...all obah dis worl’.”
Harold, still rubbing his knee, didn’t laugh. “I reckon you think you’re bein’ smart, don’t you?”
And C.K. got slightly annoyed in turn.
“No,” he said quietly, “but ah tell you what ah do think — ah think we bettah git on with this fence patching ’fore you daddy come out an’ start kickin’ ass — namely, you ass an’ mine!”
Harold frowned darkly. “Dang it, sometime I can’t believe how crazy you are! Now watch this and learn something! This is Kung Fu Kay- rotty, a really old and ancient art of defense.”
He took a careful stance, and tried the kick again.
“Aiee-eee!”
This time he managed to connect, and knocked off a dangling piece of the rotten fence-board.
“See there,” he said, brushing his hands, “‘ Kay- rotty de fense!’ That’s what they call that! I’ll show you how to do it some time.”
“Awright,” said C.K., “ah could use myself some good de- fense.”
“Yeah,” said Harold with a short laugh, “you ain’t just a’wolfin’ you could — from what I hear tell.”
“Say what?”
“You heard me.”
“Ah hear you tryin’ to signify somethin’ you don’t know what you tryin’ to signify — that’s what ah hear.”
“Yeah, well I heard that you’re
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