Dead Confederates By goldenmeadow.pdf

Dead Confederates By goldenmeadow

http://www.fanfiction.net/s/5106610/1/

The hell is this?, I thought as I read the Moldy News that landed half-assed in my

gravel driveway, littered with shotgun shells and Lucky Strike butts, the plastic-

wrapped edge dangling into the nearest pothole-filled mud puddle. I splattered

out of the house, full of the warm blood from the stinkin' possums I was forced to

devour last night. The memory of the gray and white striped fur on their tiny,

taunting bodies made me shudder. Fuckin' possums. Hated hitting that shit. I

needed some gators, and soon.

Stupid Moultrie News and their dumbass Police Log that practically shouted

'Vampires in Our Midst!' If only these ignorant, self-important snooties would

open their bedazzled fuckin' eyes to the truth staring them in the face. What.

The. Hell. So what, dead and drained animal carcasses littering the lowcountry,

like that was anything new with all the good ol' boys in the vicinity. I skimmed

and chortled over the details of dead foxes and the odd, grizzled, black bearbody

that had recently been discovered. Pshaw. It was another article that beckoned

me:We Want Your Guns! Food for Exchange!

I rolled my golden eyes right back into my head; as if that was ever going to

happen. This was gun-totin' territory! Why turn in the weapon you could use to

hunt your own food, trading it for food? Did anyone else sense the complete,

vicious circle of this argument? I friggin' doubted it. No fuckin' matter, there was

no way in hell I would ever give up my state of the art, perfectly tuned, and

custom-designed bow or my shotgun. Not that I needed them, but they were part

and parcel; they defined me as much as my old school Ford Bronco, complete

with a faded and torn bumper sticker that read 'You should see my other ride'

referring to my Ford F2500HD. The beast that spoiled the shit out of tires that

reached Emmett's linebacker shoulders, mud-splattered splash guards revealing

the superb silhouette of a buxom woman reclining and jutting her perky tits out,

gun rack jauntily stacked across the rear window, truck bed filled with the debris

of our scandalous nights.

I was not all that into auto-art, but I had to give credit where thanks were due

and toting several well-phrased bumper stickers certainly cast me as one of

them. Lining up the sticky plastic just so, I had artistically plastered the tags of

American Confederate, No Fear (natch), and Honk if Parts Fall Off to my rear

window. On the other hand, Em's ride was clapped out and colored over with a

plethora of completely at-odds banners; South Carolina Cracker: Endangered

Species, Cat: The Other White Meat, and My Child is a TERRIFIC Kid! – the pillock

most definitely did not have a kid-just like a toddler who had gotten his hands on

a 99 cent, Dollar General sticker book and run amuck all over mummy's front

parlour. Such a child.

This goddamn recession was ruining my lifestyle. With the downturn, the fucking

plummeting of the economy, people became more suspicious, quicker to cast

stones, faster to lay blame and search out oddities such as us; we had to be

beyond reproach. We Cullens, (Esme, Carlisle, Emmett, Jazz and myself) looked

to all intents and purposes like just another humdrum, fair-to-middlin' South

Cackalakee clan, but it was a farce that became a reality out of necessity. A ruse

to remain under the radar of the Volturi. Forcing our hand to be that much

stealthier and inconspicuous. To avoid notice and attention I became ever more

devoid of my previous decades of humanity. Humanity! Ha! I barked out a harsh

laugh at that thought twinned with my total inhumanity. I was a vampire and no

amount of animal blood would ever quell the desire for the thump and throttle of

the crimson, hot, corporeal fluid spewing forth from a pierced jugular.

Stupid George Dubya. I'd like to hit that, I might could even lift my embargo

against mortals! Scratch that. First I'd get Laura, she looked like a prim and

proper tasty little morsel, then I'd probably just kill her jackass (pun intended, I

may be a revamped redneck, but I got the brains of the family) of a husband.

Dildo. He needed a good head ripping off. I'd seen enough in my time, and

contemplated all the ways I could get to the current cunty POTUS as he

systematically fucked up the country. But I never did.

In the end, I was too busy buffing my guns, mud running, and sticking my harder

than wrought iron hard-on into the swinging door of dripping wet waitresses at

Mama Brown's. Mama Brown's Diner and Pie Shop. Yeah, Pie Shop, how very

fucking apt.

I might have a lucid profound thought here and there, but Emmett kept me

grounded.

At that I eased carefully from the aluminum chair that completed our mish-

mashed dining set (foraged from a night of successful dumpster diving) and

stalked silently, panther-like, to Emmett's bedroom door. His otherworldly snore

rattled the door on its frame and made the plasterboard walls of our scrubby,

doublewide trailer creak and groan. His snuffling was a masterpiece of

thespianism, making him appear more earthly until it became second nature to

pass out and feign sleep, wall-vibratingwhistleand all. He played possum like a

pro, and yet again my throat smarted against the flavor of those vermin.

Dickweed needed a wake-up call.I pummeled the shitty ply board door until my

fist went straight through and still he snuffled on. The noxious scent of cheap

booze swilled through the air as I stepped inside. Leaping from the doorway onto

his bed, I ripped the mingin' chenille spread back from his giant's body and

shouted with all the unnecessary air in my lungs, "GET THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE!"

With a groan, a twitch (by twitch, I mean a shiver that shook the entire house

and spread across the swampy ground we were perched on, causing a fissure to

glide from porch to dirt road), and a light-hearted curse, "!" Emmett rolled over

and eased his aching ochre eyes open.

Displeased that I'd punched a hole in his crude, crass, bellicose, belligerent brand

of bonhomie that made Em the quintessential manifestation of a person in these

here parts, he kept up, "You're such a feisty cunt, Edward. Why don't you just get

you some good lovin' already?"

Emmett needed a spittoon and I needed a toss-pot for all the jerking-off-induced

jizz that flew from my giant beanstalk ten thousand times a day, all to the tune of

one fucking impervious, tiny, almost woman-girl. A mere waif. Wastrel. Wasted.

A goddamn conundrum of wantonness! Fucking waitress no less.

Dipshit. Fucking Edward. Here and now, I was Eddie Cullen. Not Edward Anthony

Masen Cullen, I'd dropped that last bit of my former self by the wayside long ago.

Only a stupid-ass, South-of-Broad mama's boy with the last name of Legare

would be caught dead sporting the name Edward. He knew better than anyone

that I wasn't gettin' any good lovin' because of some irritatingly, beautiful

brunette at Mama Brown's who was making my balls turn an unsightly shade of

blue. Not my style, at all. I wanted to rip her head from her shoulders, spit in her

face, slap her ass, suck her empty, and fuck her six ways to Sunday all at the

same time.

That was the problem.

I didn't know what I wanted more.

Kill the bitch.

Or fuck the shit out of her. I wanted to gorge myself on her pussy pie, up and

down and all around town.

And since that wasn't happening, I power-smacked Emmett upside his scrungy

head with all the force of a cement block.

A wheedling whine mocked his behemoth size, "Sumbitch, all right! Eddie!"

Before he could even shake his eyes back into place I jumped to the other side of

the room, I wasn't stupid. Emmett was twice my size, but not nearly as fast or

lithe as me. I just needed to stay one step ahead of him.

"Listen bitch," I muttered, "I might could go for something to eat. Those maggoty

possums are hocking back up on me. What the hell were we thinkin'? We are

never that desperate, dude. Remember that!"

A sparkling light illuminated Emmett's formerly faux-sleep-hazed eyes. Huntin'

and chicks, that's what we lived for. Men. Vampires. What the fuck was the

difference really?

"Let's hit The Pig!" he squealed and then snorted; if nothing else Emmett had the

gift of animalistic impersonation.

"What the shit for?" I demanded.

"Them is good huntin' grounds!"

I swear to fuck, if I rolled my eyes one more time in the space of this thirty

minute interlude that was my never-fucking-ending life, I was going to go apeshit

and take down every sexy smelling, lusciously perfumed woman in a five mile

radius. I needed release, NOW. If he was hell bent on The Pig then Piggly Wiggly

it was; the local store had its own abattoir and the blood promised to be fresh

from the slaughter. It was an easy meal ticket and one that definitely would ease

the bitter queasiness from the previous night's shitnanigans. Not to mention the

sexy, tight-ass, red-haired girl behind the hot lunch counter that swooned every

time Em flexed his brawny biceps in her direction.

I smelled my wifebeater, cringing at the slight stench from the bootleg hooch

Emmett forced down my incinerating throat last night before he sicced me onto

that Christly possum family. Two minutes later saw me showered and Old Spice

soap-on-a-rope smellin'. Dipping into my closet I pulled on fresh clothes care of

the laundress talents of Esme, bless her. My hair was a mess but I did not give a

shit. The chicks seemed to like the fact that it looked like I was always sullied

from a rollicking roll in the hay; I could read their lewd thoughts and knew,

without fail, they thought of their own hands grabbing my stray strands in their

little hot fingers, pulling hard for all their worth, until they had my head grasped

in a death grip between their legs or to their lips. That was cool with me.

That brought to mind Jasper. My mate, friend, and our other brother. As the

newest member of our clan, coven, family, what have you, he had earned himself

the nickname of Junior. If he was a girl, with girly-bits, I might have considered

him a soul mate. As it was, he had a dick and he used it most mightily,

indiscriminately, and in a very admirable way against all and sundry. Chicks,

dicks, hoes, bros; he was the most un-racist, un-sexist un-dead I'd ever met. Me,

I was all about pussy. Poontang. Of all of us though, Junior was the master-

hunter. I was always amazed that he found the time to hone his skills outside of

the boudoir.

The only hippie I tolerated, he was all about the Free Love. If it had a hole, he

had the pole, and he enjoyed nothing more than dipping it in, bobbing it, and

reeling that shit in.

He had his own abode so he could shoot his motherload in some semblance of

peace…If the trailer's a rockin', don't come a-knockin'! Never was a crass adage

more true and I knew I'd be thankful for that in the days to come.

Eh, Jazz had his coming. A chill skidded over my already icy skin at the thoughts

I kept to myself.

As if speaking of the devil himself, Jazz tore through the front door, all unaware

grins at another languorous, sunny, spring, lowcountry Saturday. It was just our

kind of day with the pea-soup-thick fog. And it was days like this that made me

irate every time I sped past the outpost of Sun Stopper Window Tinters, because

apparently black windows were a must for every vampire in the southern climes.

Just in case we dazzled too much in the lazy sunshine. What-the-fuck-ever, I

rolled my eyes around in my head one more time, giving myself an unpleasant

headachey feeling. The douchebags were so glaringly obvious they might as well

hang a neon, flashing sign proclaiming, 'We Serve Vampires Hear', typo and all!

Too dazzling in the sun. Fuck that. Dazzling was a pussy word anyway. What

were we? Chicks with dicks? Naw. I preferred the phrase "sweaty sheen". My

glistening skin only the byproduct of this deliciously hot climate and the alcohol. A

little sun never friggin' hurt anyone. I'm a man, therefore I sweat. Fucking deal.

On this day, a dense, misty Saturday at the ending of spring, Jazz wanted to surf.

Em wanted to purloin some platelets from The Pig as aforementioned, and then

muff dive. In that order.

And I…I was a goner. Pathetic. A loser. Losing myself.

I was beginning to hate this human world.

I had already started to despise this earthly ceaseless existence, again.

Then I'd met her, two weeks ago. And was suddenly wondering where she'd been

all my dormant, deadened life.

We-ell, we didn't meet so much as collide, as the fucking clumsy miniscule twit

with sienna-glowing, long, wavy, messy, strawberry-scented tresses, perfectly

formed globes that pranced about as boobs, and long legs that seemed most

unlikely on such a petite frame, raped against my unforgiving, nefarious,

nacreous physique. With two choices, let the bitch face plant on my Carhartts or

wrap her up against me, I took one whiff of her wrecking-ball blood and deigned

not to drop her.

Biggest cunt-ass mistake I'd ever made.

When she'd looked up to me with so much gratitude shining from her warm,

doleful, umber, beguiling eyes, smiled with those luscious bee-stung lips, my

non-stop thoughts…stopped. I couldn't hear a goddamn thing! Not the cacophony

around us, not the clinking of ice in glasses, not the clatter of forks on plates, not

the chewing and swallowing, and most definitely not the sluice of her thoughts.

With her in my arms, I could only read the galump-rush of her heart, blood

flooding that organ until it triple-timed, a flush billowing up her pillowy skin.

She had not left my mind since.

I did not want to get attached. Least of all to a human being. A blushing klutz of

a pathetic, teeny-weeny, wan-faced, destined-to-die creature. This was a joke. It

had to be a lark! My comeuppance for being such a dickhead the last half century

at least. Yeah, God was having a grand old heyday with me now! God was taking

the piss.

I was an insufferable sonuvabitch; Emmett reminded me daily. And Esme.

Christly Emse. With her arctic amber eyes always lingering on me and hoping and

wondering and waiting, watching and fucking baiting me to find my 'one true

love', my mate. That was twat-talk and I was not having any of that!

Dick in hand. Teeth bared. Cock-talking, swaggering, drinking, and sinking dick

as and when I saw fit, no one had ever touched me. Not even the sibilant

succubus that was Tanya. Not brace-face Jessica, not supermodel-wannabe

Lauren.

I was Edward Cullen. Vampire first. Hard motherfucker last and foremost. And

Eddie Cock-hard Cullen did not wax philosophical! This Bella bitch was twisting up

my insides and warping my head, taking me back to the place I did not want to

go.

~~ll~~

We hadn't always resided here, in Cainhoy, aka Cainwhore. A Podunk town with a

population of who-the-fuck-knew and no-one-the-fuck-cared. The numbers were

continuously engorged with the influx of inbred legions that came to stay with

momma/auntie/sister during hunting season, and fluctuated yet more, with a dip,

on account of all the hunting and drunk driving accidents. Those were two things

you could rest assured would not happen to a vamp! The hairy, smelly, rancid

armpit of the lowcountry, located at the nexus of Daniel Island and Wando, a

stone's throw from Awendaw, run-off for the exigent population pushed out of

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