Nothing says Halloween quite like a good horror story… and nothing says horror stories to the staff of The Weekly Constitutional quite like the exploits of Cletus T. Broshus; our favorite pot addled monster hunter.
And lookie, lookie… another brand spanking new tale in his wild and bizarre story is getting g ready to spark off (with new chapters coming out bi-weekly, so be sure to stay tuned…).
So get ready to be scared, kids and prepare yourself for…
Cletus T. Broshus & the Blue Ridge Beast
The Tragedy of the Birchum Men
"Son, be sure to grab the gloves outta the truck on your way out..." Henry Birchum called out to his son, stretching a little as he stared out into the dense wood sprawling before him. He cupped his strong, calloused hand over his eyes; weathered brow wrinkling as he stared off to the expanse of forest laying before him. A grey sky capped the bare gnarled branches; crisp winds of early spring biting a bit as they blustered down.
A thin dirt trail, carved out from generations of Birchums making their yearly march along it, stuck out like a worn tongue from the dark forbidding wood. Long knotted oak branches reached down at the orange clayed trail, smothering the soil nearly lifeless under its stiff creaky quilt. In the summer, the canopy would be dense with green and lush browns, but these early days of spring still found the branches barren. They clacked together as a chilled breeze blew, light clapping echoing off into the furthest extents of his land.
Henry had been hunting this land for as long as he could remember, the stake handed down now through five generations of Birchums. He smiled as he saw his son bobble down the hill, the loaded arms of the sixth generation making his way towards Henry awkward and off balance.
"Took you long enough," he said with a smile, reaching back his weathered hand to his son for the gloves.
"There was a snake behind that first bush. Had to go a bit further." His son, Clive, replied. He was tall for his age, turning fifteen in a few weeks, with sandy blonde hair and focused, bright blue eyes. He had the look of his mother, Henry thought, struggling to see any of himself in the boy before him. But in certain lights he could see his genetic thumb print, the soft face of a boy being hammered into that of a young Birchum man.
"Lucky you found it before he bit you in the pecker." Henry said with a rye grin. He liked this time alone with his boy... Time for the two of them to shake off the shackles of twenty first century social demands and just be men, as Henry had been able to with his father and grandfather growing up.
"We didn't need to bring no seed?" Clive asked, swatting away at a cloud of no-see-ums that had blustered errantly towards him.
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