“Goddamn Chester Pratt couldn’t find his own asshole with a gallon of Vaseline and a divining rod,” the bearded man said. “I work for Johnny Stagg. Come on. Let me loose. You don’t want no more trouble. You kill me and Stagg just gonna send someone else. Probably a whole mess of them.”

“What’s your name?”

“Call me Bishop,” he said.

Momma Lennie snatched up a butcher knife and walked up to where Mister Bishop hung from the ceiling, slid along the rack with that deer ready to butcher. Her hair was gray and stringy, eyes hollow and black since she quit the smoking and drinking. She flicked at his shrunken pecker with the sharp end of the knife.

“Save his ding-dong for the dogs,” Momma said. “They got a taste for that ole bully stick.”

“Please,” Bishop said. “Turn me loose.”

“Tried to burn us out,” Daddy said. “Then planned to plug us both on our own fucking porch. Shit, boy. Ain’t no reversing down that road and waving adios.”

“Why’s Mr. Johnny T. Fucking Stagg give two shits about the Nix boys?” Dusty asked.

“Help me and I’ll tell you.”

“Turn off the lights when y’all are done and don’t make too much of a mess,” Momma Nix said as she walked back out the door. “Y’all stole all my damn bleach last week.”

Bishop rattled the chains and started to yell and carry on, while Daddy nibbled the bloody bit of backstrap in his hand. Dusty stood back and stared at that hairy bastard just hanging there, wondering if they might keep him in storage until they figured out what Stagg wanted besides them being dead.

“Sorry, boy,” Daddy said, white whiskers covered in blood. “You made the play.”

“I want his rifle,” Dusty said, looking down at the man’s feet. “And them fancy military boots.”

“What about the meat?” Daddy said.

“Might make a damn fine gift for Mr. Stagg.”

“Haw, haw,” Daddy said. “I like your thinkin’, son.”

Dusty turned on the sausage maker while Daddy went to the cupboard for a jar of pickled jalapeños and some of that good Cajun seasoning they got at the Piggly Wiggly. Daddy licked his lips, setting the plastic bin in front of the grinder.

Dusty walked up on the man, who was rocking and swaying from the chains, and patted his big belly with his free hand, the other holding the .45 auto he’d taken off him. “Hell, we may not need to add that much pork fat,” he said. “This fella got enough ’round the middle.”

Bishop yanked and pulled, chains jingling like church bells in that metal shed. That fat boy’s face purply red, eyes looking like they might just pop from his head.

Dusty pressed the pistol to the man’s temple.