Page 25 of We Are All Villains Here

The machete comes down with a blade’s song, azingthrough the air. Then the whack of impact—the sickening crunch of bone.

Flesh and blood spurts all over the stained wood block.

The machete cuts clean through skin and bone.

Cletus snatches up a heavy chunk of fresh gator flesh, then tosses it over his shoulder. Just as the meat hits the bucket with a clang, he brings down the machete again—thick crimson is quick to spatter over his reddish stubble.

His harsh face, littered with scars, doesn’t so much as flinch as he hacks up the gator. Southside folk are all on the rougher side. Some more than others. Then… there’s Cletus.

Sometime after his second marriage, he packed up his trailer and towed it out to the woods. No land-deed business, he just parked the trailer off the path to his swamp boat—and lived out here.

Isolated.

But Cletus keeps his ties to the Southside. Doesn’t hit the bar or anything, but his brother Randy heads into town for him. Cletus doesn’t leave his wet stolen plot of land. How he keeps his ties to his people—he offers select services to his fellow Southsiders. A sneaky service: Secrets.

They don’t call him Mr. Fix It for nothing. And that’s who he is. The ‘fix anything and everything’ and ‘keep my mouth shut’ recluse.

He gets paid. In the ways he needs or chooses. Favors and cash. Sex.

Got a problem?

A stolen car that needs stripping?

Need to lay low from the law?

Got a bag of cash or drugs that needs hiding?

A body in the trunk?

Cletus is your guy.

So when a blinding white light flicks on across the pit from the shadows of the trees, Cletus doesn’t bat an eye. He just glances over his shoulder at the white light.

Directly behind him, light shines a gleaming circle of white from the woods. Another customer. That’s how Cletus thinks of those who come to him.Customers.

He drops the machete with a clatter, staring down the barrel of a particularly large flashlight. Hand slicked crimson, lumps of white flesh burrowed under dirty fingernails, he gives a lazy ‘come over’ wave, then spits a wad of chewed tobacco to the dirt. It lands with a slap.

“No one ‘ere,” Cletus calls out, his voice rougher than his calloused hands. “Come on out.”

He turns back to the chopping block and, using a filthy rag, wipes the blood from his hands as best he can. It isn’t unusual for Cletus’ visitors to come from off-road. Not everyone wants to risk the road in, being seen or pulled over on the way. If a customer’s car doesn’t need to be brought in, then the woods are the smarter route to take.

A current of snaps and crunches come from far behind him. Twigs snapping under the weight of steps.

Back still turned to the night’s customer, Cletus hollers, “Help yourself,” and he gestures to the bottled moonshine piled in stacks by the splintered porch to his trailer.

Cletus doesn’t always offer his own brew. Sometimes he just wants a drinkin’ pal. Other times, a customer will catch him in a friendlier mood. But most often, he spares the moonshine for the customers with the worst secrets—as well as those who just trekked an hour through the woods to find him.

But there’s no answer. No more steps to break twigs on the ground, no voice calling back to him, or even a rustle of movement.

Nothing, until—

The flashlight flicks off.

For a moment, it feels like darkness has swallowed up the pit. But after one blink, two blinks, Cletus’s eyes strain to adjust to the dim lantern lights all around, the much dimmer illumination without the glaring white.

There’s only silence.

“Cold feet,” he gruffs under his breath. Tossing the rag aside, he turns to face the path again. Not the first time a newcomer freaks themselves out and runs off. Some just spook easy. Get the jitters.

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