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WATCH, one read, and another: THIS IS A DRUG-FREE ZONE. To divert his souring mood, Helton turned on the radio. Intermittent Christmas music leaked between bars of static, evangelical outbursts, and annoying music. Then he finally found a station with decent reception, a news station.

“Once again the residents of Pulaski awoke to more horror in this Christmas season as authorities report yet another brutal puppy slaying. Deputy Chief Dood Malone has assured us that he and his officers are working round the clock in their effort to apprehend this despicable culprit…”

“What he say?” Micky-Mack asked.

Dumar scratched his head. “He say puppy slayin’?”

With rising bile, Helton listened further.

“Early this morning, a two-month old poodle belonging to long-time resident Adeline Parker was found mutilated and beheaded in the yard of an abandoned southside house. Authorities believe the house had previously been occupied by heroin dealers…”

Dumar’s jaw dropped. “Did he say—”

Helton cut him off with a slash of his finger.

“Members of the Pulaski County Sheriff’s Department remain mystified by the rash of hideous crimes against local pets. The perpetrator is in all likelihood a gang-member from South America where heroin dealers are known to torture, mutilate, and decapitate innocent puppies as a means of issuing warnings to rival drug gangs. Ms. Parker’s puppy, abducted from her yard early this morning, was similarly tortured, mutilated, and decapitated —”

Helton snapped the radio off.

“Jesus Lord Almighty!” Dumar shouted. “You hear that, Paw?”

“They’se torturin’ puppies here!” Micky-Mack nearly squalled. “What kind’a crazy place is this?”

“No point tryin’ ta reckon it, boys,” Helton advised. “In the city? That’s just the way it is.” The idea of someone murdering puppies was simply too much for Helton to bear. “It’s just more’a what I were sayin’, ’bout the outside world. Like earlier when we’se filt the truck up with gas at the Citgo…”

“Yeah,” Dumar said. “Cost damn near a hunnert bucks to fill the tank! Didn’t cost half that much last time we did.”

“It’s the government, fellas. The government lures regular folks from their natural roots and puts ’em in cities, and then they gots ta work jobs like a bunch’a ants in a anthill, and with ever dollar you make, you gotta pay part of it back to the blammed government as part’a these things called taxes, so then the government makes city folks dependent on things like cars, gas, store-bought food, ‘lecktricity and then they make ya pay taxes on that!” Helton shook a rueful head. “Boys, I just hope we’se can avenge young Crory’s death a right quick, ’cos the sooner we’se done doin’ it, the sooner we’se can get back to our natural lives…”

“But how, Paw?” Dumar’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. “How we gonna do it?”

“All things at their proper time…”

Helton directed Dumar through several more turns, then instructed him to park in an extensive parking lot.

“Dang!” Micky-Mack exclaimed. “Lookit them buildings!”

“They stores, Paw?”

“That they is, and they’se stores we’se gonna have to do some shoppin’ in.” He pointed through the large windshield. “See that ‘un there? Dumar, I know you ain’t much fer readin’, but what that sign there says is, it says Home Depot. It’s a big-ass place they’se sell tools in.”

“Shee-it, Paw, we’se got plenty’a tools—”

“Not the kind we need fer this.” Helton gave his son a handwritten note. “Take this list, son, and give it to the first fella ya see who’s workin’ there. Then once he gathers up ever-thing on the list, ya take it to the counter and ya buy it. Then bring it back ta the truck,” after which Helton placed ten $100 bills in his son’s hand.

“Dang, Paw, that’s a lot’a money!”

“Don’t waste time runnin’ yer mouth. Just git in there, git the tools, then git back.”

“Shore thing, Paw!” and then Dumar was off.

“You’re a bit better at readin’ than Dumar,” Helton told his nephew, “so’s what I want’cha to do first is run over yonder to that buildin’, ’cos it’s what they call…a grocery store.”

Micky-Mack cast a confident grin. “Shee-it, Unc Helton. “I’se been ta grocery stores—three or four times at least!”

“Good. Now, we’se gonna need food durin’ our trip, but it gotta be canned food on account we ain’t gonna be doin’ much cookin’. Get’cha as much as ya can carry, boy.”

“Shore, Unc, but what kind’a canned food?”

“Beans, I reckon, git lots’a beans, and they’se got this other stuff ya probably heard’a, called spaghetti. There’s this famous chef, and I think his name is Boy-Are- Dee. Ya gots that? Boy-Are-Dee. See, he sell his spaghetti in cans. Oh, and pick us up couple’a six-pack’s of Coca-Cola. Can ya remember all that, son?”

“Aw, shore, Unc!”

“Then after ya got us the viddles, ya go over yonder.” Helton pointed. “That there’s a convenience store, kind’a like Old Man Halm’s Qwik-Mart in Luntville, only bigger.”

The sign on the store read SHOP-SMART. “What’cha want me ta fetch there?” Micky-Mack asked.

“A girlie mag.”

“Huh?”

“You know what a girlie mag is, Micky-Mack?”

“Well, shore, but what the hail we need a girlie mag fer if’n we’se fixin’ to revenge the terrible murder’a Crory?”

“We’se need something—and I thinks the word is…provokertive, to look at.”

Micky-Mack peered in utter confusion.

“Somethin’ to keep our peters feisty, you know? Somethin’ we’se can lookit ever so often to keep our bones fit ta spit.”

“Uncle Helton, I’se just don’t understant…”

Helton’s stern finger pointed. “Just do as I say!”

“Yes, sir!”

“And here’s some money—”

“Aw, don’t bother with that, Unc. I’se got some’a my own on account last week I help Nuce Wynchel’n his boy Tube finish diggin’ post holes fer his new fence ’round that land’a his he’s fixin’ ta raise sheep on. This bein’ a family emergency, I’se reckon it’s only proper ta contri-bit my own earnin’s,” and then Micky-Mack withdrew several $20 bills from his jeans.

Helton beamed with pride. “Boy, what you got is what they call character, and that’s a rare thing in these dark days. I’se proud’a ya fer yer fine gesture, but see here. Ya put yer money away and use my Maw’s. It’s the way she’d want it.”

“Well, okay, Unc, whatever ya say.” Micky-Mack took the mint-condition $100 bill from his uncle and started out the truck door, but after a second’s thought, he stopped and turned back to his elder. “But where is you goin’, Uncle Helton?”

“To that great big fancy store ‘cross the street.”

Micky-Mack looked. “You’se mean the one with the giant yeller’n black sign?”

“And all them blinkin’ Christmas lights in the winders, yeah.”

“B-E-S-T…B-U-Y,” he slowly read. “What’cha fixin’ ta buy there?”

Helton stroked his beard. “See, what I’se fixin’ ta buy there…is a camera…”