Petey J.'s Eyes

T’ursday’s ‘r for drinking.  Well, come t’ t’ink ‘bout it, so are We’nesday’s, T’usday’s, Mo’day’s, Su’day’s, Sat’day’s, n’ Fr’day’s. 
But t’at’s not t’e point here.
T’ere I was, in a local drinking hole.  Enjoying a warm whiskey n’ a cold beer.  Bartend’a John McKrack knew how I enjoyed ‘em so he kept ‘em flowing.  Never had t’ ask for a refill, he just knew.  Always.
In comes Petey J.  Fuckin’ Petey J.  T’is guy is t’e most annoying person I’ve come to know at t’at time.  Most folks call ‘im  Parrot J. on account he squawks like a damn parrot all t’e time, constantly talking and bullshitting t’ose who don’t need bullshit – if you catch m’ notion.
He comes in and of all t’e damn empty spots at t’e bar, he plops next to me.  He smelled of rotted shit gone bad – and trust m’ when I tellya, it Rob Graves says someone went n’ smelled like rotted shit gone bad, you better n’ believe t’at because I dig n’ rob graves for a living.  I’m wit dead bodies all day long and t’at smell don’t bother me ‘nymore.
Petey J. goes on ‘a squawking – “Hey Rob, hear I saw an old pirate skull they found in the backwoods of Marshie’s property?”
I heard of t’e story, not t’at I cared… or believed.  But fuck it.
“Telling you Rob, you missed a hellofa thing out there friend.  I found it too.  Yup.  With my own eyes.  Saw two gold things shining in the sun.  Gold?  I’ll take it, yes I will.  I reached down to pluck that gold from the ground and holy damn I went ahead and pulled up a skull.  Kept digging and found whatever he – or she – was wearing.  On land like that.  Could you imagine?  Wonder what they were doing there…”
I knew.  People n’ t’is notion that pirates only sail t’e seas.  Heh, make me fucking laugh now, go on.  Remember somet’ing, m’ Daddy was a pirate, so I know it all.
“Called out the mayor and everything,” Petey J. continued.  “I shook his hand, we held the skull and got a picture for the paper.  You ever had your picture taken before, there Rob?”
I shook m’ head.  T’en took a big ‘ol sip a’ whiskey.  Even t’e burn wouldn’t shut up Petey J.’s fucking voice.
“Mayor wants me to come to a dinner to talk about it.  Have me tell him.  Gosh Rob you should have seen it.  You wouldn’t believe it.  A real pirate skull.  And by lord it looks just like they show ya in the motion pictures and what’n.”
I already knew t’at too… you don’t grow up in a pirate-gypsy house n’ not see t’ings that come from nightmares, ya know?  But fuck it, it builds character.  Built my character from t’e ground n’ up. 
“Damn Rob, I wish you could have seen it.  But you couldn’t, unless you had these eyes…”
T’en, of all damn t’ings to do, Petey J. looks at me and widens his eyes, looking like a damn fish ‘r somet’ing.  He moves t’em back and forth, back and forth, and smiles, showing off t’at he himself is missing four teeth… and t’at’s when I noticed – he was only missing t’ree teeth.
“I t’ough you was missing four teeth,” I says t’ him.
“Nope, look,” he says and moves his lower lip.  And damn my Daddy’s watery grave, does he not have a gold pirate tooth jammed in his gum. 
“You took a pirates tooth,” I says.
“The mayor told me to take it.”
I nod.  You don’t steal from a pirate, nor a gypsy.  T’at’s like stealing from me.  And you don’t steal from me.  I do t’e stealing, the grave robbin’, the livin’. 
Not Petey fuckin’ J.
“So, t’ll me,” I says, “you saw a pirate skull…”
T’e sonofabitch goes back into his story.
“I pulled it right out of the ground, like I said.  It was something Rob.  You should have seen it…”
“Okay t’en, I’ll try,” I says.
I nod at bartend’a John McKrack and he knows t’ be ready.
I stand up and spin Petey J.’s seat around.
“Let me see,” I says.
He laughs.
I did what I had t’ do.  I stuck m’ fingers in his eyes and pulled t’em little white balls right out ‘a their sockets.  T’ey weren’t t’e first eyes I’d held but t’e first I’d pulled out of someone wit a pulse.  Christ, it’was stringy and a little tough.
Petey J. screamed and whined like a baby.  At least until bartend’a John McKrack came over wit his sho’gun and put Petey J. outta his mis’ry.
So I lifted up t’e eyeballs and put t’em against mine.
“Nope,” I says, “sorry Petey J., I can’t see me a t’ing…”
Ah Christ, me n’ bartend’a John McKrack must’a laughed for a good hour.
T’en the evenin’ rush came in and people’s all night trampled on Petey J. all t’e while we left his eyeballs on top of t’e bar.
I buried t’e sonofabitch t’e next mornin’, outta respect.
But I took t’e gold tooth outta his mouth first.
As I said, robbin’ a pirate is as good as a’ robbin’ me.  And you don’t rob me.  If anyt’ing I’d rob you, once you was dead, of course.

Sea Beasts

W'en most find out m' Daddy was'a pirate t'ey want t' know if sea beasts're real.

I smile at 'em.

I never answer, no need.

Why?

I say one t'ing...

"T'ere's plenty'a beasts walkin' t'e earth..."

(T'ink 'bout it.)

Use your fuckin' hands mate...

Fuckin' shov'ls.  I see t'e technology we use n' play wit n' smile me a bit.  Sure, as hell as walks in t'e flames of t'e devil's spittin', I use t'is shit m'self. 

But back, in t'e time you all dream of bein' in - damn you'se and your p'irate flicks.  Back t'en, believe t'is wordin' 'r not, t'ere weren't none a shov'l in t'is ground.  We dug wit hands, mate, hands.  Fuckin' bare hands.  Diggin' t'e graves, one by one, dropping 'em stiffs like rocks. 

Ya know w'at?  I liked it.  Damn, I did so.  Felt like an honest day's work t'ere diggin' me like t'at.  On 'our knees, diggin', wit t'e stiff next t' us.  It was kinda like gettin' t' know t'e person, ya know, t'e dead one.  Made dying a little more pers'nal. 

Fuckin' shov'ls. 

Six Feet Under

T'is "six feet under" shit pisses me off just a bi' or so.  Many have fallen t' a grave on t'e waters, salted and not.  Some have fallen right t'ere in a gutter, drowning on t'ere own blood.

Now, I 'a dug me t'ousands a' graves so far n' I can t'll you that we don't stand t'ere wit a tape measur'in the dirt we shovel'in.  F'r m', I dig 'til I get m' fill... eit'er m' hands bleed 'r I get a little t'irsty for s'me whiskey.

Six feet under.  Sure.

Jack Daniels

Once knew t'is poor son-a bitch named Jack Daniels.  Met 'im on t'e road one night.  I jus' got done wit' a fresh dig - scoring some necklaces and a gold toot' - when I see t'is guy on t'e side of t'e road sitting on a barrel.

So I asked him, 'What-cha up to?'

He looks at me, 'Waiting for m' ride.'

'Where?'

'Can't be sharing t'at, no.'

I understood, I nodded.

'I hope he comes t'is time,' Jack Daniels said.

'How long you been waiting?'

'Eight years.'

'T'at's damn prison time!' I said with a laugh.

'Worth it when I share w'at's in m' barrel...'

'W'at's t'at?'

'Best whiskey you'd ever had touch your lips.'

I begged him for a sip but he refused.  So I left.  A week later I heard he was killed that night - a rambling group come by drunker than my Uncle Willy when he found-out he was gonna be fifty n' a Daddy again.  They stabbed Jack Daniels, took his whiskey, and drank it.  Word was i's the best whiskey any of 'em tasted.  So good, t'ose men turned theyselves in for t'e murder. 

Someone also t'ld me t'at Jack Daniels had a son. Boy, I hope his boy finds t'at whiskey rec'p beacuse I sure as hell all mighty be ready for a change off 'a t'e rum.