South of the Pumphouse. Les Claypool
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South of the Pumphouse
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to real events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published by Akashic Books
© 2006 Les Claypool
ISBN-13: 978-1-933354-06-4
ISBN-10: 1-933354-06-2
Library of Congress Control Number: 2005934827
All rights reserved
First printing
Akashic Books
PO Box 1456
New York, NY 10009
For my wife and kidlets. They make me smile.
A special nod to Miura and the Kohrnman.
Would you, could you, on a boat?
—Dr. Seuss
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Chapter 6 TERRY THE FLOWER GIRL
Chapter 9 WELCOME TO EL SOBRANTE
Chapter 11 DAS BOOT
Chapter 12 TINY TUNAS
Chapter 13 JOHNSON’S BAIT
Chapter 14 ENTER THE DRAGON
Chapter 15 BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
Chapter 16 SOUTH OF THE PUMPHOUSE
Chapter 17 DUANE THE CHINK
Chapter 18 WHO YOU LAUGHING AT?
Chapter 19 LOUISIANA HOT LINKS
Chapter 20 A NIGHT AT THE RANCHO
Chapter 21 CRABMAN AND STING
Chapter 22 PHILOSOPHY
Chapter 23 THE BIG ONE
Chapter 24 THE O.J. THEORY
Chapter 25 THE GAFF
Chapter 26 DEEP SHIT
Chapter 27 JOHN DAVIS
Chapter 28 THE DUMP
Chapter 29 CLEANUP
Chapter 30 THE LEFTOVERS
Chapter 31 THE GHOSTS
Chapter 32 VACANT GRAY
Chapter 33 THE FISH
THWAP. PLOINK-A-CHINK!
“That little prick,” she muttered, opening her eyes. She’d been wrestling with insomnia since her mid-fifties, and she cherished what little sleep came her way. The woman knew the local sounds of the night: cats, dogs, the occasional backfire or squealing tire of an adolescent joy ride through the neighborhood. Most nights the house was quiet except for the drip of the bathroom faucet or the random gurgles and blurps that emanated from the flatulent man who had shared her bed for the past thirty-odd years. He was a journeyman machinist on the verge of retirement. They had plans. The thirty-six-foot diesel pusher with two slide-outs that sat in the driveway was their ticket out of this blue-collar neighborhood. It had been a good place to live and grow, but lately these particular sounds in the night troubled her. These were the sounds of the old couple’s impending obsolescence, the sounds of suburban vandalism.
THWAP. PLOINK-A-CHINK!
The chubby kid in the split-level two doors from the end of the block was using the streetlamp outside his window for wrist-rocket target practice again. He was the type of fat bastard who would thump the small kids just for the hell of it and was known to torture any neighborhood feline misfortunate enough to cross his path when he was “holding” firecrackers or other celebratory explosives.
Late that summer evening, hopped up on sour balls and Baskin-Robbins ice cream, this plump youth decided that the time had finally come to get the job done right, once and for all. He’d been plinking away unsuccessfully at the streetlamp on a nightly basis since the weather had turned warm. Up until then, his only ammo had consisted exclusively of glass marbles that he’d stolen from his younger cousin. Earlier that day, however, he’d stumbled across some steel ball bearings while rummaging through an old coffee can filled with random nuts, bolts, and wood screws that he’d found in his father’s garage. Now armed with more formidable ammunition, he grabbed his trusty wrist rocket and went forth that very night to hunt and kill his shiny old foe.
THWAP. PLOINK-A-CHINK!
“That