Unspeakable Violence by Chuck Hustmyre

Author:Chuck Hustmyre
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: muder, racism, southern, meth, grave robbing
Publisher: Chuck Hustmyre
Published: 2018-03-20T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 21

At about the same time that the mutt escaped from Genore's dog kennel and was either killing or mangling the Skippers' pet goat, Johnny Hoyt and Phillip Skipper decided to take young Baillio on a ride to the House of Pain in Ponchatoula. It was time to man up and join the club, time to become a member of The Brotherhood.

At the tattoo parlor, Hoyt and Skipper watched like proud papas as the tattoo artist/methamphetamine cook inked a three-dimensional wooden cross between the 15-year-old's shoulder blades and etched the letters G.F.B.D. in gothic print across the top of it. The tattoo scribbler also imbedded the image of a pit bull on the inside of Baillio's right forearm.

When the tattoos were finished, Hoyt and Skipper looked approvingly at the fresh ink on John Baillio's back. They saw their matching tattoos as symbols of their bond with one another, of their faith in one another, and of their loyalty to one another. As members of The Brotherhood they were inseparable and unbreakable. At least that's what they hoped.

Baillio was proud, too. He finally felt like he belonged somewhere, to something, and to someone. Other than this fledgling racist gang, the teenager had no one else. His mom hadn't been able to control him and had, in essence, given him to a neighborhood friend. His grandmother, whom he adored, was in prison for vehicular homicide. For John Baillio, Phillip Skipper, for all of his problems, his rage, and his abuses, was it, the only parental figure in the boy's entire fucked up life.

So with inked symbols in place, the three founding members of The Brotherhood piled into Phillip's green Ford pickup truck and headed back to Clinton. They had business to take care of, business that carried with it the near certainty of making some real money.

***

Johnny Hoyt wasn't as lazy as his one-lung brother-in-law, Phillip Skipper. Hoyt worked part-time for a roofing contractor, hauling 50-pound stacks of shingles up a ladder in the sweltering south Louisiana heat. John Baillio sometimes worked with him. Baillio would do almost anything to get a break from Skipper's sexual assaults.

Skipper on the other hand was a wannabe quick buck artist. He got a monthly Social Security check from the government and listed his occupation as disabled. The only work he ever really performed was diddling around Genore Guillory's house, taking his time cutting her grass and feeding her animals. The rest of the time he spent trying to figure out ways to scam money.

One day as he drove his pickup truck along Rist Road, just before turning onto Oakwood Lane, Skipper rumbled past a cemetery and it suddenly occurred to him that the dead might have more than the living. In their grief, people often buried deceased family and friends with gifts and expensive jewelry. A cemetery might literally be a gold mine. All any enterprising soul had to do was simply pluck the gold from the ground.

The cemetery sat on the east side of Rist Road a quarter mile from Louisiana Highway 961, a thinly traveled two-lane blacktop.

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