That woman had never been a very good driver, always worried about her little “Jay Baby,” this fucking retarded offspring she had bred in union with his father, who had married her, but was just Whiteman enough not to have married Randy’s whore Korean—well half-Korean herself, the Seoul-Spawned, army-brat bitch—mother.

Marge Bracken—kind of cute, he had to admit, from the ripe old vantage of 15.7 years in planet, Pop obviously having a good eye for the female form—seemed to want only three things: more time with Pop, who worked all of the time, some glimmer of intelligence from her born-bald, ape-child, retard son, Jay, and for Randy to love her and call her Mom.

Dream on, bitch. He thought as Marge swerved around the muscled-up pick-up truck occupied by three hairy-faced men who he’d rather be driving with then this usurper bitch and her retard son.

It was tough though, keeping up this hard front as Jay looked up at him with his big, blue, retard eyes and drawled, “Say, Bro, we gonna plink bir canz ova Pap’s dis weeken?”

It was tough being admired by this retard half brother of his. But ever since he had shaved his head, supposedly in sympathy for Jay’s hairless infant head, that never grew a single stalk of mammalian grass, but in actuality, according to directions from Pap Bracken, the genuine hillbilly, race-hating patriarch, who wished his grandson’s round-bodied black hair concealed from the Hillbilly World, Jay had seemed to bond with him from six months of age, always looking up at him with those idiotically fearless eyes in search of approval…

A screech of wheels, the slam of doors and the cursing of Marge and the rednecks dismounting from the pickup shocked Randy into action, all hundred and ten pounds of him.

They were at the crossroads below Bill Cox’s place on Route 40 and Route 19 and these big bastards were piling out of their pickup, the driver cursing out Marge, the biggest passenger just kind of shaking his head like it was all stupid. But this mean-eyed redhead of about 21 years was eye-fucking Randy and it set him off.

They advanced towards each other and the young man said, “You’re mother’s a whore and her son is dead,” clenching his knotty fists in anticipation of beating down the skinny boy, who was sliding his sharpened screwdriver from his flannel shirt sleeve as he closed. The sound of some “dog-chimp” hooting, snarling and wolfing, made the red-headed man and the big easy-going guy start in amazement back at the car even as Randy slammed that screwdriver home into that that denim-encased ball-sack.

The bastard went down in the road and the big man gave Randy the open hands of no trouble and stepped back toward the open truck door, “I don’ wan’ no trouble little man. This is all for fools if ya ask me…”

With those dying word and the whimpering, squirming of the man-thing at his feet the big man and Randy gave each other a nod of agreement that they would both now look see what the horrible shit was going down in front of Marge as she babbled, “No, Jay Baby, down Jay, down—Oh, God, Randy!”

The tall, loud, redneck with the black Asian-pussy beard was running in small circles, trying to get the sixty pound monkey off of his back that was Randy’s brother. Jay had both bare, dirty feet on the man’s shoulders, both hands in his hair, and an ear in his mouth, snarling like a dog with his bone.

Feeling like a man, after Marge’s request for help, Randy pocketed the screwdriver as the tall driver fell to his knees in hysteria, pleading for mercy.

Randy, his voice cracking from the new hair growing on his little balls, commanded, “Bro, I just stabbed a man—we gotta beat tracks so I don’t get arrested.”

Jay looked at him with a stretched out ear in his teeth, seeming to come down from some towering rage, and then let the ear go and chirped like a little kid, “Can we still go plinkin’ at Pap’s?”

“Soon as you let that pussy-face faɡɡot loose.”

With that Jay leaped from the man’s shoulders into Randy’s arms, nearly knocking him over, nuzzling his face in Randy’s boney chest while all the men—even the ball-stabbed one—looked on in amazed fear.

Ten minutes ago he would have quipped, “Talk about retard strength,” but not now, not after this. They were brothers in the eye of the Shit Storm, which was the only god that mattered when the adult shit hit the fan of circumstance.

Like a bald Tarzan with white chimp in his arms, Randy nodded with a look of warning to these men as if he were Pap himself. Patted Jay on the back he felt a strange warmth as they piled in the old beat-up, yellow Pinto and Marge drove off like they had robbed a bank, sparring a glance of fearful gratitude for her stepson, who still held her monster baby in his arms, uncomfortable aware that this little kid was easily twice as strong as he was, stronger than that lumberjack looking bastard robbing his ear in the road behind them.

The air though, the air blow-drying the sweat from his bald young head could not be beaten, gave him a feeling of freedom down deep inside that he fed over the years from the back of an iron horse and would stay with him forever…

His Me-262—no, just a forked-out Sportster—crackled ominously as he slowed down on approaching the Maryland State rest area for road-weary faɡɡots, where their just happened to be a State Pig parked, with his car facing the visitor’s center.

A chill played down his spine as he felt the wind caress the iron cross tattooed on the crown of his head and he recalled he had not been stopped for violating the helmet ordinance.

As he rumbled up the drive he did declare, “Randy Sterling Bracken, last worst hope of the fading race of your mud-fucking father, you’ve been a bad boy.”

“Yes, Pap, turning myself in as we commune.”

As he spoke to himself, he pulled up behind the State Police Cruiser, so the bear within could not pull out, and dismounted, feeling the weight of Thor’s iron hammers strapped down under his duster even as he ripped it open with his left hand, and the indignant Pig emerging from his car choking on a mouthful of coffee—for he saw his own doom reflected in the blued steel of the Navy .36 leveled at his face.