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Buck Billabong strode into his father's log cabin. The harsh light of the sun
outside left him blind in the shack's dim light. Squinting, he set his rifle gently against the
wall and hung his ball-cap on the end of the barrel. He ran a hand across his sweatstained scalp and wiped the moisture into his denim jeans. The nano-fibers in his pants
gently vibrated, shaking molecules of H2O into the air. However, all this vibrating only
registered to Buck as a slight irritation on his ass, so he scratched it.
“Pappy?” he whispered in the darkness.
The shadowy silhouette of his father materialized at the edge of the cabin, beneath
a massive deer skull. The figure sat motionless in a simple wooden chair, but his outline
seemed to burn a hole in the wall. Like a dragon or a crime-lord, Papa Billabong's simple,
somber presence exuded a power that turned Buck's stomach inside-out.
“The fuck you want, boy?” he asked with that familiar accusatory tone.
“I need some money, Pa.”
Papa Billabong took a long draw from his cigarette. “Like hell you do.”
“But, Pa!”
A sweep of the hand silenced Buck's rising whine.
“How come yer sister never comes scratchin' on my door when she needs money?
Why you suppose that is, Buck?”
Buck shifted his weight and blurted out an answer, “'Cuz she's your favorite?'
Buck's father crossed his legs and narrowed his eyes.“Buck, this ain't about
Glassy. This about you, son.”
“Pa … I wrecked Nashville.”
Pappy threw up his arms. “Goddamnit, Buck.”
“It wasn't my fault!”
“You get drunk again, boy?”
“No, Pappy, I swear!” One of the Cunningham hounds got loose again, so's I
swerved Nashville right into a ditch, trying not to run over the dumb dog.”
A silence descended on the old man. The cigarette shook between his long,
arthritic fingers.
“Cunningham … ? Did you hit the dog, son?”
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Buck laughed, his chest suddenly expanding with a strange sense of pride.
“Ayup. I turned the poor pooch into pavement pasta, I reckon.”
“You—”
Papa Billabong threw down his cigarette, pursed his scaly lips in a rage, and
started to rise. However, a sudden cough surprised him—then hacking, wheezing,
gagging—billowing up from deep inside his ancient body. Unable to stand among his
body's convulsions, Papa Billabong slumped back into his chair.
Buck watched and waited, a chill creeping along his spine. He knew that cancer
claimed his father's lungs years ago and nearly claimed his life as well, but the patriarch
of the Billabong clan wasn't going down that easily. His father put down his life
savings—the money that would have been spent on Buck's college fund or, for that
matter, Hooked-on-Phonics lessons—and with that money, he purchased a shiny new pair
of cyberlungs. Essentially a set of inflatable air sacs supported by a steel stalk and an
artificial, vat-grown diaphragm, the cyberlungs gave Papa Billabong a new lease on life
and a new reason to keep on smoking. The only side effects were an odd, high-pitched
whistling noise when he coughed and a reluctance to pass through metal detectors.
“Pappy ...” Buck moved to help his ailing father, but the stubborn patriarch
grumbled and resisted. “Pa, you know the doctors said you shouldn't be smoking.”
As soon as his coughing subsided, Papa Billabong lit up another cancer stick and
gripped it with his teeth.
“Doctors—what do they know?”
Buck sighed. He pressed his back to the wall and slid into a squat.
“Buck.” Papa Billabong blew a cloud of smoke and rested a hand on his knee.
“You should-nuh done that.”
Buck cocked an eyebrow. “Done what?”
“Go off and killed the fucking Cunningham dog, you dumb little shit.”
Buck frowned, confused.
“Don't you realize this-uh grounds for feudin'?”
“It's just a dog, Pa.”
“'Just a dog!' says the ingrateful little shit-stain. You realize blood has been spilled
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over lesser matters, don't you, boy? You realize that powder has burned and heads've
rolled over much less, don't you?”
Buck shrugged and averted his eyes. “I didn't mean none-uh that, Pa. I just need
some cred to fix up Nashville, and then I'm outta your hair. That's all.”
“Nashville! That pickup been in our family for generations, ever since Grandpa
Billabong traded in his old clunker for a pile of cash, left the West Coast surfin' business,
and staked a claim right here in the heart of Appalachia. You know how he got here, don't
you, Buck? In a brand new Ford F-150 pickup that he named after the city where he met
his first wife—Nashville!”
“Now Nashville's just a clunker too, huh, Pa?”
“Shut the fuck up, Buck.”
Buck stiffened his lip.
Papa Billabong hawked up something deep in his throat, hacking and snorting
until the lumpy mucus gathered at the base of his tongue. Then he swallowed. The hairs
on Buck's skinny arms rose on their ends.
“Buck,” he sneered. “You've-uh been nothin' but a drain on this family ever since
your mother's parents pressed charges against me for statutory rape.”
Buck took a deep breath and stood up. He snatched his ball-cap and flipped it on.
His eyes rested on his rifle.
“You're just gonna have to trash the truck and hoof it from now on, Buck. There
ain't no alternatives.”
“Yes, there is, Pappy.”
Buck stared down the iron sights of his rifle and wrapped his finger around the
trigger. His pits were damp, and his eyes were dark beneath the shadow of his cap.
“Don't do nothin' you'd regret, boy.”
“You owe me, Pa.”
“I don't owe you shit.” Papa Billabong spat on his son's feet.
The hunter didn't budge, ready to play this bluff until the end.
“You owe me everything. Gimme your 'link.”
The leader of the Billabong mountain clan took one last puff, chucked the butt,
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unlatched the commlink hanging on his hip, and threw it on the ground. One kick sent it
skittering across the floorboards. Buck stopped it with the heel of his boot.
“I don't know who you are anymore, Buck.”
Buck snatched the commlink and snapped it to his jeans without lowering the gun.
“I'm a Billabong, Pa.”
Buck backed out the front door, never taking his eyes off the old man's solemn
grimace.