Free Knockemstiff by Donald Ray Pollock

“When you figure was the last time we ate?”
    “I don’t know,” I said.
    “It’s been a week. At least a week, right?”
    “Yeah,” I said. “Maybe so.”
    Walking to the back of the car, Frankie opened the trunk and lifted the chicken out. My shirt was still wrapped around it like a shroud. “Oh, shit,” I said. I fumbled for the last pill I had in my coat pocket and bit it open. “Just give me a minute here, man,” I said, swallowing the bitter powder. “Maybe I can still do something.”
    Frankie shook his head. “You want your shirt back?” he asked. He was swinging the chicken back and forth by its feet as if he was trying to hypnotize me.
    “No,” I said. “Well, yeah, I guess so.”
    “Here, hold this, just for a minute.” He handed me the stiff bird. Then he began digging through the trash again, finally pulling a broken stake out of the pile. “This’ll work,” he said to himself. Taking the chicken from me, he set it on the ground, and pressed his foot on its neck.
    “What are you doing?” I said as I took off my coat and put my shirt back on.
    “Watch,” he said. And with one quick motion, he bent down and rammed the stake up the chicken’s ass until the point broke through the breast with a crunchy sound.
    “Goddamn it,” I cried. I was so worthless I’d forgotten all about it, and now nobody could bring the chicken back to life. Then another thought occurred to me. “You’re not going to screw that, are you?” I asked him. “Because I’ll tell you right now, Frankie, I won’t allow it.”
    “I hadn’t thought of that,” he said, “but no, I’m gonna eat the fuckin’ thing.” Then he lifted the chicken up and carried it toward the fire. One of the bird’s eyes was open, staring at me blankly. A thin strand of blue intestines hung from the tip of the stake.
    The tire was blazing now, the thick black smoke funneling into the night. The smell of the burning rubber started to make me sick. I stood back and watched as Frankie held the carcass over the edge of the flames. The feathers curled and melted and disappeared. “Ain’t you even gonna gut it?” I said, stepping closer.
    He looked back at me and showed his teeth. “Just got to cook it,” he gagged. He pulled Wanda’s red panties from his pocket and held them over his face. The chicken began to grow soft, and started to slide off the end of the stick, but Frankie righted it just in time. The skin sizzled and smoked and started to turn black. Drops of fat began to splatter into the fire. The feet shriveled up and fell into the flames.
    Without another word, I stepped across the drainage ditch and out into the soft barren field. I pulled the bottle of pills out of my sock, stuck them in my pocket. Route 50 was two miles away, and I started walking toward it. Mud stuck to my boots like wet concrete, and every few steps I had to stop to shake it off. Looking up, I saw the red blinking lights of an airliner, miles above me, heading west. I’d never been on a plane, but I imagined big-shot bastards on vacation, movie stars with beautiful lives. I wondered if they could see the glow of Frankie’s fire from up there. I wondered what they would think of us.

GIGANTHOMACHY
    I T HAD RAINED HARD DURING THE NIGHT, AND IN THE morning everything along the fence line was bright wet green except for that brown anthill. Even though we’d flattened the shit out of it just the week before, the damn thing was already the size of a bushel basket again. It was as if we’d never been there. Christ, they’d even buried the concrete block that William had left standing as a monument to their war dead.
    “They’re taunting us,” William said, staring down at the ants gliding about on top of the soggy mound, repairing storm damage, oblivious to us, their mortal enemies.
    “What,” I said, “they’re just bugs.” William made a big deal out of everything. The whole world was out to get him, even the milkweed and the