The Haunted Traveler December 2017 Edition

“Not good enough in bed?”
“I never slept with her,” James bit out.
“That’s why you lost her. She wanted your brain hanging out of your pants, but you’re
zipped up. That’s good. Too many Apache boys catching STD’s from her. You don’t
need to be next.”
James drew himself up to his tallest. “Cory’s a virgin.” He didn’t know why he was
defending her. She was as reprehensible as the rest of them. Maybe it was because
his grandpa was right, and he hated when his grandpa was right. The old man loved
rubbing it in.
“Cory likes groups. This time next year Jason’s gonna be burnin’ warts off his weenie.”
The crone chortled.
James shifted his feet. He always felt like an idiot when his grandpa talked to him. He
never had witty comebacks either. It was like his brain had shut down. After Cory had
left him, he had thought the games would keep his mind off of her. But they had wiped
his mind of everything but Cory.
“Hey, tall for nothing, get in here and take out my trash. I can’t do nothing with my
bad back.” The bow-legged crone hobbled into the house.
James frowned at his chuckling back and followed, feeling like a slave. His eyes roved
the house and yard for his grandpa’s devil hound. Sometimes the old man just laughed
if his mutt attacked someone, and it was usually James.
For living alone, Old Jerry had a truckload of trash. The man loved his Sprite. Two
liters cluttered the kitchen, windowsills and the dinner tray by the television set. The
only thing lickably clean was the trashcan.
“I thought I was supposed to do something about the cornfield,” groused James as
he scoured Old Jerry’s filthy abode.
The old man plopped into an old chair made of orange tweed and swigged a Sprite.
“Yeah, I left my razor over there.”
“Mom said—what you bring your razor for?”
“To cut corn, stupid.” He let out a humungous burp; ancient air from musty lungs.
“Somebody’s been stealing it, so I been cutting it.” James wrinkled his nose as the rancid
stench floated across the room to him. “Get over there and guard it.”
“Until when?”
“Morning, and don’t forget my razor.”
“I needa eat first.”
Old Jerry blasted gas from both ends. “Eat your gut.”
“Ugh, come on, Grampa.” James covered his nose.
“What are you complaining for? When’s the last time you washed your butt? Help
out an old man, boy! You better run over there. Mr. Big, get over here.” A little rat
Chihuahua scrambled from the hallway to its master’s bony knee. “Chase diabetes here
to the cornfield.”
The satanic mutt darted at James, head down. Every fantasy that James had ever
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