Psychobilly Massacre- Part 1

We failed at our last chance to stop the Psychobilly chief Old Buck Three tooth, after our tribute of Pseudoephedrine, inhalants and spent ammo cartridges, since they deemed purchased ammo as filled with blanks by the Zionist homosexual conspiracy with the proceeds going to fund inner city crack armies, came up short. He invoked the laws of the Backwood, to those unversed in the laws of the back wood, imagine war and then total war, now imagine total- deliverance chainsawgeddon. We appealed to the local sheriff, but we were to late. The overweight sheriff with a voice that dripped from his ampel mustache like cold molassses had been bought off with fine Cuban cigars and a generously galloned stetson, he had evoked super double secret Posse comitatus and just like that, unbeknownst to us we had been declared outside the laws.
All we ever wanted to do was build a community based on six blue prints and a central pool in a cheap real estate market ripe for development. How did we know that our “fancy pancy” medical clinics and high faluting ways would lead to a secret pact among neighbors to take on raw extrajudicial powers in regards to our moderate gentrification. Levied from the various casts of the counties natives,”they” went about sealing off our neighborhood with burning tires demanding wild things with even wilder explanations why a more common/cheaper item would not suffice. Failure to comply was met with a wild meth charge of belligerent pillaging until a important lesson was learned, or a wise family hedged their bets with planted heroin and barbituates stashed in areas likely to be searched as sleepy addled neighbors shamble back to the now immense laager of opportunistic trailer folk. And that’s how I got the idea for the beheading, take a few heads, give as good as we got maybe get them to turn down the music and to recycle their recyclables, show them the ole neighborhood spirit.
I happened to know of a stash of college age dealer who was killed early on due to his demanding need for proof of why a shot gun wielding group of freebooting thugs was an entity that required anything more than its native authority, and thus, was one of the first to die leaving me one of the few “”groovy” individuals left amongst our harried band of survivors who knew of the stash. Turning my coat to look more like the rustic garb of our complacent aggressors I found a small group manning a nomadic checkpoint and toll collection service who I offered to lead to a stash, for some of their artisanal meths, since I couldn't seem to be altruistic, or they might know. Their intense tribal paranoia had thwarted every attempt so far to ingratiate ourselves amongst them, no matter what, they would eventually call you a cop, and then, the bludgeoning, always the bludgeoning. We were desperate, I just hoped I would be the first to do it right, for long enough.

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