I always teased him about his name, he was uptight about it, and it being the apocalypse and all, I figured that I had to have some laughs to keep the megrims away.
Anyway, one day Guy and I came across an apple orchard just beside the road. There were Granny Smiths all over the grass, plump green sour apples that looked so tasty and tart it made you want to dig up your momma and give her a slap.
Well, Guy saw all of those apples, and he went hog wild. He ate nine or ten right off the bat, and filled up our Cherokee with the little suckers. Apples were rolling around in the floorboards, across the seats, hell; you couldn’t hardly put ass on a place that wasn’t covered by one of the things.
It was about one or two the next night, when Guy starts movin’ and groovin’ like his insides are dancing a jig. Then the farts came. While the smell wasn’t as terrible as some I’d smelled before, (or since), I was more than a little pissed off, because the suckers were wet.
Every time he squeezed one off it sounded like he was leaking motor oil out of his starfish. I knew that the passenger seat would end up looking like someone had given it a dirty sanchez, and I’d be damned if I was going to ride shotgun until we got a blanket or something to cover it.
Well, he kept up with the Hershey squirts for an hour or so before he started whining, “Carl, lemme out, I gotta shit,” and “I swear to God, I thought that one was coming, but I held it off.”
Now you know me, once I start driving, I don’t like to stop until I’m by God ready to sleep, and here was Guy talking about his goddamn vapors.
That’s when it turned into a contest. I wanted to see how long it would take him to either A. Shit himself and stink up the truck, or B. Jump out.
Of course I would have stopped, but a part of me, I’m ashamed to say, wanted to see that skinny little fuck jump out the door with a big brown shit stain all over his Wranglers.
Well, an hour or two later, it happened. Guy had started to quiet down, and was dozing lightly, when his stomach made the Godawfullest screech I’d ever heard a living person’s make. I thought there was a raccoon or a ‘possum in the cab with us.
I slowed the truck down a little, and he started screaming again. “Lemme out Carl, I’m serious this time, it’s coming whether I want it to or not.”
Then, the coup de grace, the fart to end all farts, erupted out of his bony ass. I swear on a stack of Bibles, that it shook the seat, and I may have even seen the rearview mirror jitter a little.
Well, I figured he’d learned his lesson, so I ever so slowly, pulled to a stop. He was out of the truck before the dust caught up to us.
Like a shot, he was off through the weeds, undoing his belt as he went. There was a little shack, and to this day, I don’t know why he went into the shack to do it. He just ran like his feet were on fire, and his ass was catching (for all I know, it may have very well been.)
I could hear him keening as he held the in the shit, then I heard his sigh when he let it out. He probably launched it so hard it splattered his shoes, but I don’t want to be too crass, you know.
Anyway, I heard him making crooning sounds, and every so often, when the wind was right, I’d hear a soft splat as he dropped again and again.
I must have been out there waiting on him for ten minutes, when I heard a scream. Now I figured he’d just gotten his plumbing crossed up, but when it turned into a wet gurgle, I knew something foul was afoot.
I grabbed my flashlight, the Reminton 12-gauge, and hopped out, figuring I was too late, but still trying to see if there was a rational reason he could come up to screaming like that.
When I turned on the flashlight, I saw something that keeps with me, even today. A long dead female ghoul had taken a bite out of Guy’s ass end, it’s face and shoulders covered in his crap. The damn fool had been crapping into somebody’s fruit cellar, two more running steps, and he would have fallen down into it and probably broken his neck.
The ghoul was feeding itself on Guy’s twitching leg, but I knew he was gone, he hadn’t even bled all that much.
Well, I know you’re going to think bad of me, but I didn’t shoot either one of them. She looked to be quite the dish, before she died, and of course, before she had a few pounds of dook dropped onto her, and I figured that Guy could do a lot worse for a mate on his new journey. The steps had rotted, and she’d just pulled him down into there, just as smart as you please, and I didn’t know how many more my shots would attract.
So yeah, I left them there, both shitter, and shittee, I’m sure they’re happy together, and by God if that ain’t a happy ending, then what is?