The crazy-eyed, crazy cracker named Snit squatted behind the ensnared heroes, an arm over each shoulder, grinning from ear-to-ear, his face like to split, as he looked from one to the other and the van rolled on into the snowy night. Through the woods, over the hills and into the nary-real night they rolled, bobbing and bouncing uncomfortable-like on that tool box, the grinning head of the White Devil bobbing between them, and the broad, hairy back of that afro-headed sasquatch mutherfucker drove like the greatest devil of them all was on their tail. While this monstrosity did drive, he with his evil minion, did contrive:

“Hey, Snit,” it rumbled, hands hairy-white on the wheel, “ready for a riddle?”

“Sure, Ronbone!”

“Okay, Snit, how do you keep a niցցer from drowning?”

“That’s easy, Ronbone. You bone him and gut him and fit him with a compressed air bladder for flotation—best wetsuit a scuba queer ever dove for pearls with.”

“Wrong,” roared Ronbone. “One more chance or I make you practice on your new friends and we won’t get to play What’s in the Bag with Douchebag Diesel.

As Ronbone split a pair of headlights with his own and drove some poor motorist off the road into the woods, Snit worked his leathery white jaw in the lurid glow of the dashboard lights, and unable to reach his own head, scratched Otis’ head in consternation, seeming to wrack his pea brain for the answer. “Come on, ‘Bone, I was jus’ gettin’ used ta ownin’ me a boy!”

Ronbone rumbled beastlike, “You dumb fucking hillbilly, you get one more chance to answer correct or we carve up your niցցer.”

“Well, which one is mine, I‘d like to know,” simpered Snit, like a baby living under threat of taken candy.

Ronbone laughed like the Archfiend his own self, sped up, veered slightly to the side to destroy a mailbox made like a gingerbread house with the right fender and then declared, “The dumb niցցer is yours, Snit. Just like whores, you get the dumb bitch and I get the one who figures out she’s not making it home before its obvious!”

Otis began to throw up and the Snit devil grabbed him, slid open the side door and held his big head out in the rushing snow-flecked air of the night as Otis hurled.

Ronbone then looked in the rearview mirror at Slick-Ass and said, “We’re just having fun, Bro. We’ll have you home in your ghetto shack in just over an hour.”

As Broke-Ass contemplated the fact that this Ronbone devil was smarter then him and knew he was going to look into that rearview mirror when he did, the joking started a fresh, “So, Snit, one last time or I make you throw your boy from the van so I can paint the mud flaps red.”

“Ready, Ronbone!” snapped the frightening Snit.

Ronbone then looked into the mirror as he destroyed another mailbox—this one with a Santa Clause on it—and said, “How do you keep a niցցer from drowning?”

“Shit, ‘Bone, that’s easy, you take your foot off the back of his head!”

“Give that man a drink,” said the giant, as he handed back a bottle of Jack Daniels and the sour smell made Ortis sob and the giant laughed as the Snit man danced in a squat and guzzled, flashing wicked eyes first to one then to the other as the van took a hard right turn up a hill so big it seemed a mountain, the Whiteman’s Wicked Mountain, from where He rules the cruel world and those sorry folks caught up in it’s cold embrace, foremost among them our devil-taken race.

Up and up the monster-driven van crawled, white in the night, taking Slick-Ass Rasheed—who were not feeling too slick just then—and that booty-smitten fool, Otis ‘Dumbass’ Poppleton to a ron-dee-view with their own messed-up plight.

Then, soon as the snow-blowing White Devil took a breath, our zero and our hero found themselves parked at a crossroad.

To the back was the way they came, up the windy road.

To the right was a dirt road to a farm, where Slick-Ass imagined they would be buried.

To the left was a gravel road into a woods, where Otis imagined they’d be lynched.

Straight ahead was a new road, winding up and up to a big house on the top where the road ended. On either side of the road was another big house, making three big houses in all, the two to each side all decorated with Christmas lights, the one on the hilltop dark and foreboding.

Ronbone turned off the van and turned—a great, hulking shadow in the wintery night—and produced a bag. To which Snit, smacking his lips from a drink, said, “What’s in the bag?”

Ronbone then opened the little bag and pulled some things that were bent up out of the bag and placed one on Otis’ head and another on Slick-Ass, as if he were an albino King Kong dressing up bitches at the beauty supply super-store. They looked at each other in amazement and saw that they were dressed in elf ears.

As if in answer to their unspoken question of mind, Ronbone said, “They’re green. Sorry. Didn’t know we’d have niցցer elves.”

Snit was jumping up and down in a squat with his hand on Otis’ shoulder and his bottle of Jack spilling on Slick-Ass, which brought a scolding from Ronbone, “Watch the whiskey, Snit.”

Snit calmed down, snorting in a snickering way, his sour breath on their back as Ronbone spoke. “Gentlemen, we have three houses here, all customers of mine. There is Rebar Grantland, a mercenary and big game hunter who is heavy into pain meds ever since he fell out of a chopper shooting a cape buffalo. He’s a good dude, good customer. If you manage to stumble into his place—have fun with that. We don’t recommend it. If you get into his place he’ll consider it a favor from us, save him the trouble of buying a niցցer tag from the fish and game commission. In that case, you and us are square.”

Otis’ eyes got gigantic and he shook his head, as if trying to clear it.

The giant continued in a hushed tone, “Then there is Doctor Wallenstein, who fucked up Kathy’s boob job. He’s a faɡɡot. Don’t hurt him, just clean out his safe and we’ll split it with you—bang his wife if you want. The damned Jew married one of you, if you can believe that shit. If it comes to him calling the cops, just tell him you know he has two keys of coke in his attic.”

“And there is Mary and Steve ‘Douchebag’ Diesel. Mary buys from us, pays with blow jobs. Her husband is a little sissy, stays in the basement all night playing videogames. Snit and I make deliveries while the idiot is screaming at the TV in the basement. Douchebag is loaded. If you could scare Mary into opening his safe, we’ll split the cash with you. You can’t hurt her—we like her. If you have sex with her—the deal’s off and in the river you go.

“So, if you two homeboys succeed in getting whacked by Rebar, robbing Wallenstein—optionally banging his old lady—or ripping off Steve, without touching Mary, then we’re hunky-dory, we split the money with you—unless you’re mounted over Rebar’s fireplace—drive you back to your roach motel and forgive you for breaking my basement door. The way I see it you have a two-out-of-three chance of walking away from your night of misadventure the richer for your trouble.”

Otis and Slick-Ass frantically nodded, “Yes” and they soon found themselves being un-taped and pushed up the darkened country road toward the three houses, a low snicker of devilish tone cackling behind them as they lurched uneasily into the night and up the hill, stiff-legged and elf-eared, on mutherfucking Christmas Night.

To be continued in Exodus: What’s in the Bag…