I’ll describe the scenario for those who don’t see too well… It looks like a group of proud noble warriors isolated a blue eyed Caucasian beta male and beat him to death before liberating the cash from his wallet, setting his corpse on fire and then walking to IGA on Federal Avenue to size up the next mark and spange for enough change to purchase a handle of Fleshman’s Redcap.
There a various reasons why I didn’t meat this same grizzly fate while living on the wind River Reservation:
- I don’t play hero after sundown. Ever. The first time at Slaughtery’s Place when I chased a noise out to my shed I got a barrel pressed against my temple. I found four Arapaho braves and that classy loud-mouthed broad I’d caught relieving herself against my trailer a few nights prior. I’d broken bread with three of ‘em already that week, only to have this sweaty Puke-ahontas hold me at gunpoint asking if my tools were worth a casket; they weren’t. While she was playing philosopher, Sunny’s teenage bottom-feeder, Brandon and his crew were emptying my shed of three grand worth of hardware, camping gear, and weed eaters.
- I never lingered for dessert at the neighbor’s, nor did I ever finish a hand of dice. The minute the first local went blank in the face from the firewater the air about him turned black. I could see the rest of ’em salivating like a pack of jackals eying a porkchop, just waiting for a taste of fresh Christian blood; easy sport. And I ain’t whistling dixie, it is what it is.
- When the shadows start moving and the woods erupt with those bone-chilling whistles and the mimicry of animal cries, circling your hideout all night long, you know one thing: stepping out there is a one-way ticket to hell. It was a nightly nightmare. They taught me to sleep with one eye on the door, the TV dead and the AC silent, just so I could track their every move outside my window. I could hear ’em drilling through the baseboards, feeding rubber tubes through the holes to pump some lethal fog into my sanctuary. This ain’t some cheap pulp fiction, either. I’ve got the photographic proof of the damage they left behind.
This ain’t no punchline, none of it. I’ve got a real grudge against the Wind River Reservation and every soul in Fremont County, Wyoming… doesn’t matter what they pray to or where they came from. Every face I saw was just a mask for a two-faced rat. Only Levi and Charles were straight, but Levi’s pushing up daisies now. The truth is, even the ones not out for your blood, not holding a knife to your back will hand you over to a dozen cousins who are. Case closed… uh, the case I’m making is closed, not the 900 murdered and disappeared cases that go unsolved in Fremont county every year because those cases are being “investigated” by the murderers.
i, Zachary Ian Freeman, solemnly swear to the truthfulness and accuracy of this blog post with laser precision and candid sincerity.