Coleman leaned against the end of his shovel for breath. “What if the farmer sees us?”
Serge stood chest deep in his own hole. A spade of dirt flew over his shoulder. “Too far away and probably asleep. Plus, his view is obstructed.”
Coleman looked up through a line of trees, where a porch light from a very distant farmhouse flickered in the branches. “Hope you’re right.” He resumed digging. A continuous grunting sound. Some of it was Coleman; some wasn’t. “Those things give me the creeps.”
On the far side of the fenced-in pen, dark forms milled about with guttural communication. “They’re totally harmless,” said Serge. “At least to us.”
A half hour later, another check with the tape measure. Serge was satisfied with his own hole. He walked over to Coleman’s and extended the metal strip. Not even close.
“Coleman, climb out and let me finish or we’ll be here all night.”
The edge of the second hole was at Coleman’s bellybutton. He tried to pull himself out. He fell six inches back down. He tried again. Same results. He panicked and attempted to scramble up the side, sneakers digging into the soil wall.
“Coleman, stop that. You’re just pulling dirt back down into the hole.”
“I’m going to die!”
Serge yanked Coleman up by the armpits. Then he jumped in the second hole and quickly finished the task with a flurry of shovel action. One last measure with the tape. He nodded. “Time to welcome today’s lucky contestants.”
Serge went back to the trunk, pulled out the first hostage and slammed the hood. The man’s hands were bound behind his back, but his feet were free. Serge ordered him at gunpoint through the squeaky gate. The man saw the holes. Terror. About to be buried alive! He took off running, but Serge quickly tackled him in the mud.
“Listen to him trying to scream,” said Coleman.
“That’s why I love duct tape.” Serge dragged the squirming man by the ankles and reached the edge of a hole. He pushed him in feet first. A horrified scream from behind the mouth tape. Until the man’s shoes hit bottom. Confusion replaced dread. The man looked around, the hole’s edge only up to his neck.
Serge grabbed a shovel and began filling dirt in around their guest.
“Putting the dirt back around a guy looks easier,” said Coleman.
“That’s always been my experience.”
Minutes later, Serge was done. He stomped in a circle around the man’s head, packing ground firmly.
“What now?” asked Coleman.
“Like shampoo. Repeat as needed.” He went back to the trunk for the second hostage. Into the other hole. Dirt shoveled in. Serge’s soil-packing dance again.
Two heads looked up with wide, puzzled eyes.
Serge smiled back. “Inland Florida is such a hoot!”
Time passed. An invisible moon tacked across the sky. The Javelin’s engine was running with the front hood up. A metal can rested on the radiator cap.
“Can you dig it?” Serge swept an arm across the dim panorama. “We’re blessed with a rare opportunity to soak in the pure, untainted natural essence of Florida exactly as the original Tin Can Tourists found her almost a century ago.”
“Even wiggling heads sticking out of the ground?”
“Especially wiggling heads. Florida’s changed, but people haven’t.” Serge dipped a spoon into the can and tested a sip. “Still too cold.”
“Can I try?”
“Go for it.”
Coleman ladled a spoon into his mouth. “Ow. That’s pretty hot.”
“Not for me,” said Serge. “I demand all my soup be tongue-blistering.”
“Then how do you eat it?”
“I don’t. It’s way too hot. I have to blow on it awhile. That’s why I love soup! Anticipation building while I blow until I lose interest and dump it out.”
Coleman peered back through the barbed wire at what looked like two bowling balls in the darkness. “I still don’t get what you have planned for those dudes.”
“Plan’s complete.” Serge wrapped a towel around the tin can and removed it from the radiator. “Mechanism’s already in motion, totally self-contained and under its own renewable, earth-friendly power.”
Coleman pointed at the radiator. “May I?”
“Be my guest.”
Coleman stepped forward with his own can. It was empty and dry. He set it on the radiator cap, then began breaking up pot buds and dropping them inside.
Serge rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure I want to ask.”
“Old party technique, but you have to know someone who’s no Bogart.” Coleman meticulously disassembled another bud. “Fill an aluminum can with a two-finger bag, stick it on a hot plate in a bath room, then cram as many people as you can inside and hyperventilate. You want to talk about high.”
“What made you think of trying it here?”
“All your history talk.” Coleman turned his Baggie upside down, emptying residual shake into the can. “Dope goes way back. Bet anything those Tin Can guys were getting righteously ripped.”
Serge dumped chicken noodle on the ground. “Why do you say that?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Coleman looked at the surrounding fields and woods and marshland. “No TV out here. And back before TV, dope was TV. All the heads understand this.” Tendrils of smoke began snaking out of Coleman’s can. He bent over and inhaled deeply. “Like you know how one of my favorite TV shows will be coming on, and I’ll fix myself a plate of Cheetos and torch a mondo fattie?” Coleman leaned for another deep breath. “Then I’ll get so stoned I forget to turn on the TV and just watch my reflection in the blank tube for a half hour? Still a good show.”
A chorus of grunting in the background. Serge turned toward the fenced pen. “Speaking of show …”
On the other side of the gate, the gathering of dark forms began to emerge from shadows.
“Hey,” said Coleman. “Those pigs don’t have those things.”
“That’s pretty specific.”
“You know what I mean,” said Coleman, wiggling an index finger on each side of his nose. “The pointy deals on the wild pigs we saw run in front of the car.”
“Tusks.”
“I thought when you handed me your field guide and said the pigs gave you an idea, we were going to bury these guys so they could get stabbed in the head with tusks.”
“That would be gross.”
“I was looking forward to it.”
“Those were wild boar, but they gave me the idea because people all around these parts raise livestock pigs,” said Serge. “Most people don’t realize how extremely intelligent they are because of their poor hygiene. But pigs roll in the mud to cool off because they don’t have sweat glands.”
“What are they doing now?”
“Sniffing the heads.” Serge walked over and leaned on one of the fence posts like a ranch hand. “Incredible sense of smell. That’s how they find truffles. Another thing about pigs is they’re omnivorous. Nature’s garbage disposal. Devour absolutely anything, I mean anything.”
“Eat their own poop?”
“Coleman, you ask me that same question every day, except this is the first time it’s in context. Yes, they do.”
“What about attack?”
“No, just your friendly foragers. But if something’s conveniently left on their plate, like a dead or injured animal that can’t move much, they won’t send it back to the kitchen. And afterward, nothing left, no hair, not even the smallest bone.”
“Like piranha?”
“No. Well, yes. Well, maybe super-slow-motion piranha. They just kind of gently nibble at their own relaxed pace. It’s actually kinda cute.”
“Like what that first pig is doing to the top of that guy’s scalp?”
“Field guides are worth every penny.”
Four hours later, the sun rose on foggy, dew-covered fields. The farmer had been making his rounds since well before first light. He left the chicken coop for a short tractor drive down the hill to his pigpen, where he hoisted a hefty burlap sack and began scattering feed to the swine herd. Nothing out of the ordinary, just like every other morning-except for a pair of barely noticeable reddish-brown circles in the mud at ground level.