DMB Pulp: Top 10 Stupid Things I Survived, #1
What we've all been waiting for...redneck tobogganing.
[Follow these links to catch up with the #10 stupid thing, #9 stupid thing, #8 stupid thing, #7 stupid thing, #6 stupid thing, #5 stupid thing, #4 stupid thing, #3 stupid thing, and #2 stupid thing I survived growing up in Texas.] I know there is nothing you’ve anticipated all summer more than this—my largest moment of stupidity (to date). If anything can make us feel better about ourselves, it’s reliving the stupid moments of others, even if we take a perverse joy in knowing that we’ve been stupider. Because of this, I hope these last nine tales have been somewhat cathartic, and that this final missive brings you a bit of giddy happiness.
I’m stretching the formula a bit for this one due to the geographic location of the stupidity being in Montana rather than Texas. But this encounter perfectly encapsulates the final process of my metamorphosis into the world’s only (unashamed) Redneck Granola. It all started during the summer of my seventeenth year.
By August of 1993, I’ve spent the last several weeks roaming the United States like a vagabond in my 1984 blue-sky Volvo 240 DL. I’ve spent the majority of my funds on a small tent, a North Face backpack, and a zero-degree goose-down bag. (Along with Tampico orange punch, white bread, peanut butter, and jelly. From Ft. Worth to Missoula; Detroit to Portland, I’ve criss-crossed the contiguous forty-eight. I’ve learned that college campuses are a great place to snag free food and a shower (thanks to all the summer camps rife with buffets and fruit baskets). I’ve learned the ways of the freegans before they formally existed as a lower caste. I’ve read the entire Gospel of John while traversing I-94 between Bismarck and Fargo.
To break up the vast stretch of summer between orientation and the beginning of my first semester at the University of Montana, I signed up for the freshman outing—a camping trip and hike to St. Mary’s peak in the Bitterroot Mountains. It was on this camping trip and hike that I cemented my spot into the hall of epic stunts (according to “New Hampshire Jonathon” and “Granola Gregory”, my two vagabond buddies from freshman orientation). What my two wandering amigos didn’t know at the time was that my action was not driven by thrill-seeking. Nope. My rash act was nothing more than the giddy overreaction of a Texas boy bewildered by the presence of snow in July.
As the lot of us soon-to-be freshmen at the U of M marched up the final ascent of St. Mary’s (elevation of 9,300 ft.), we were immersed into the crystalline belly of the clouds. We were surrounded by a glacier. Never in my wildest redneck dreams had I imagined such a thing. Upon reaching the summit, in a fit of ecstasy, I leapt off the mountain.
Yup.
It was explained to me later that careening face-first down an ungroomed, icy slope in July is the epitome of idiocy and statistically speaking that should have been the last time anyone saw hide nor hair of me.
At the time, it was quite the rush. The hike up had taken over an hour (from our base camp). The trip down took less than fifteen minutes, and fourteen of those minutes were spent bushwhacking back to the campsite. In the end, the few scrapes and bruises were well worth the fond memory of my cattle call (ie. rebel yell) echoing back to me as I barreled down a mountain…covered with snow…in July.
How I’m still here today, God only knows.
At the Desk This Week
Below, you’ll find the final scene of the fourth season of the Lost DMB Files. With the conclusion of Twitch & Die! I’ll take a bit of a break in posting daily serial fiction on this Substack. I’ve started the next season, but that project is currently on the back burner as I try to finish up the third season of The Green Ones. Of course, I’ll continue with my weekly Friday emails. And at some point down the road, I’ll return to creating new Lost DMB Files! If you’ve been sitting around waiting for an excuse to read Twitch & Die! this is it. Enjoy.
The Conclusion of Twitch and Die!
[Click here for an introduction by Jim Buckner]
[Start with the introduction to the series.]
The day cleared, and for the first time in what seemed his entire life, Chancho felt the warm brush of the sun. He tipped the jug one final time and set it down. He picked up two glasses filled to the brim with Angel Tucci’s backwoods-distilled grape brandy known by Italian immigrant simply as grappa.
He, Chloe, McCutchen, and Nanette stood around a third wooden cross, driven into the hard ground beside the grave markers for Phebe Marcon and Marcello Tucci. Chancho held his two glasses at waist-level and stared at the hilltop north of Gordon. Despite his best efforts, he’d lost another friend—someone assisting him in his vision. The loss warred within him, yielding a split judgment on the even more deeply disturbing question of twitcher consciousness.
Demons, monsters, animals—they were all those things. And yet, they were unavoidably more.
Chloe broke the silence, “Angel Tucci was genuine and good and wise.” She held her glass out at arm’s length. “Thanks, Angel, for giving me confidence. You’ll be missed. Cheers.”
They all raised their glasses before knocking them back.
“Da man trained some damn fine donkeys, and I promise to take good care of ‘em. You sleep well, Mr. Tucci.” They knocked back another gulp of grappa before standing motionless for a long moment.
McCutchen cleared his throat. “I didn’t know Angelo, and until now I hadn’t tried his shine.” He held up his glass. “But I can honestly say it’s quality. Some of the best booze I’ve ever had. And even though I hope you don’t need it where you’re at, it seems appropriate, so salud.” They drank again.
“He was a kindred spirit and a brother in arms.” Chancho held out his glass. “You were a friend.” They drained what remained of the grape brandy.
Finally, Chancho took the remaining cup and poured its contents onto the dirt at the base of the cross. “May all the water in heaven be wine even finer than this.” The others murmured a chorus of agreement. “Amen, mi amigo. Amen.”
Chloe put a hand on Chancho’s shoulder. “Someone needs to inform his wife back in Italy.” She gathered the empty containers. “I figure I can do that.” Chancho nodded. She patted him lightly on the butt and left, followed by Nanette.
McCutchen remained, staring at the three wooden crosses. After a long silence he spoke. “I know you feel responsible for Angelo’s death.” He stooped down to pick up the jug and pour himself another glass. “Fact is, I put the other two in the ground intentionally.” He took a long swig. “I’m willing to wager I’ve killed more men in my life with lead than you have with failed intentions. Look, I’m not trying to lessen the blow or assuage the grief, or none of that bull plop.”
McCutchen took another gulp. “What I’m saying, is that until last night I knew without a doubt that coming after you was the first and only mistake of my career.” He knelt and placed his cup on the fresh mound covering Marcello Tucci’s decaying body. “Now I barely know anything, but I know this.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’d be proud to call you friend.”
Chancho shook his head and stared at the ground. “I wanted to kill you. In Thurber, I wanted to shoot you dead so badly.”
“I know the feeling.” The ex-ranger left his hand hanging in the air between them.
“How did you know—”
“That you wouldn’t?” McCutchen lowered his hand and nodded. “A killer sometimes has to fight, and a fighter sometimes has to kill. You, Mr. Villarreal, are a fighter, not a killer. I’ve killed enough of both to know the difference.”
Overcome with emotion, Chancho staggered backward. He wasn’t sure he could forgive the man who, until the previous day, he’d known only as the rinche. Above the racket of his thumping heart, a single question leapt to mind. “Why did you do it?” He nodded toward the graves.
“To protect Texas. Everything, always, to protect Texas.”
“And what will you do to protect her now?”
McCutchen swallowed before looking Chancho in the eye. “You know what it’s like to be compelled to something by forces beyond your control. I reckon you call those forces God. Personally, I don’t know,” he shook his head and looked skyward. “Maybe from now on, I will too. But whatever you call it, you and I both know that the compulsion requires unfaltering obedience. Maybe I haven’t always been right, but I’ve always been faithful the best I know how. I won’t turn from that now. And neither will you.”
McCutchen breathed deeply. “I’ll do what I have to do to protect the state I serve. I’ll prove I’m a valuable field agent by killing Lipscomb and taking his place. I’ll bide my time until I find out who’s at the top. Then I’ll kill ‘em. I’ll kill them all.” Gingerly he rolled his neck. “After I do some healing, of course. What about you, Del Rio Villarreal?”
Chancho knelt. He picked up the jug and drank directly from it. “I will return to Austin and continue to fight for the weak and oppressed. I will hold TPE accountable for Thurber.”
“You’ll be a target from now on.”
Chancho shrugged. “I’m getting used to it.” He smiled before extending his hand. “Lastly, I will be praying for your soul, mi amigo.”
“Gracias.” McCutchen clasped his hand in Chancho’s, and they shook on it. “I could use it, but there’s still one last thing I’ve got to know. You were down there with them, in the cave. And we both saw the fight with Vezzoni.”
Chancho nodded.
McCutchen turned to stare directly at the two graves in front of him. “I’ve killed dozens of them, and still, I don’t know what they are.”
It was of course the biggest question of all. Chancho had struggled to keep it below the surface till now. Truth was, he didn’t know either. Or worse yet, he’d known all along. They were brothers, like Marcello. Husbands, like Serge. Sons, daughters, sisters, mothers.
He knew eventually he’d have to come up with a better answer. But for now the only answer would have to do. “They’re twitchers.”
END
Thanks so much for taking the time to read Twitch and Die!, Season Four of the Lost DMB Files. I’ll be publishing FREE daily scenes from the Lost DMB Files until…I die…or something terrible happens. Seriously, I’ve got over 400 scenes written so far, and I’ll be writing more until the story reaches its natural ending. You are totally welcome to read the entire story for FREE! If at any point you decide you would rather finish the story in ebook or print format, just click the buttons below and you can do that as well. If you enjoy reading the serial releases, BUT you would also like to support me as a writer (my kids need wine!) please subscribe to my premium content for bonus scenes, exclusives, and insider access to my process. And of course, I’d be grateful if you would share this post with any of your reader friends who you think would enjoy the Lost DMB Files. Happy reading!