by Zachary Wilhide
I’d been gone for ten years and it didn’t take me more than a few stories from high school in between pints of beer to get Charlie Whitaker out to Lee Perdue’s field.
In school ole Charlie was an asshole. One time he hog-tied me naked and threw me in the girls’ locker room, and that was a good day. Got so bad that the day I graduated I wanted two things: To get the fuck out of that shit town and to never see Charlie again. In the decade since graduating I’d earned two business degrees, was newly married and was working at a Fortune 500 company. It was all hollow, though. Charlie was a hang nail on my life.
When I couldn’t get it up during sex I realized something needed to be done. I took some vacation days from the job. I told the wife I had some things to take care of and drove to that little Podunk town. Through some old friends I’d found Charlie at a blue collar dive bar. He recognized me when I walked in.
He extended a calloused hand and gripped mine in a vise-like handshake. His eyes were glassy, his grin insincere. I offered to buy a round and one turned into five more. We reminisced about high school. All of the shit he put me through was diluted through the years into small bursts of drunken laughter. I laughed, but didn’t find the stories funny.
In between the last two rounds I mentioned how I’d never been cow-tipping. Mischief gleamed in his eyes. He belched and told me about a pasture half a mile from the bar. I looked intrigued.
We finished our beers and headed out toward Perdue’s field. A hazy crescent moon hung in the sky. On our walk he clumsily tried to tip a lone cow that had wandered away from the herd. He missed and fell on his ass.
I told him I saw some cows up a ways. It was too dark and the trees were too thick to see the gate at the top. I’m sure he was too drunk to remember anyway.
Near the top of the hill, Charlie stopped. I heard a zipper and a steady stream hitting the grass. I opened the gate and stood quiet among the foliage. The bull trotted out. Aimless at first, it soon spotted Charlie.
He didn’t even have time to put his dick away. The moonlight accentuated charging black muscle and white horns. Bones crunched and blood sprayed in the air. Charlie went limp. The bull trotted off down the hill.
I knelt beside Charlie. The grass was slick with blood and dew. Flecks of white poked through his chest. His eyes stared at the sky, fixed and unblinking. I stood and took a deep, relaxing breath. My dick was hard as a rock.
Zach Wilhide has had stories published in Shotgun Honey, Near to the Knuckle and Out of the Gutter Online. To contact him simply follow the sounds of heavy metal, foul language and weight plates slamming on the ground — he answers to the name of “Whyte Devil.”