I knew that I was in a heap of trouble when the mechanics showed up in a big old beat-up four-wheel-drive mud-covered truck with a hand-painted sign on the doors that read Cooter’s Roadside Auto Repair.
These fellas sat in their truck a little too long — staring at me — before they got out to reveal they were dressed in camouflage hunting outfits from head to toe. Their caps were camo as well, except for the Confederate flag emblem on the front. Their clothes were covered in dirt, grease, and what looked like blood stains, the same stains they had on their faces.
I was on my way back to Austin, TX from the East Coast. I had gone to do some remodeling work on my rich sister’s vacation home on Chesapeake Bay and was happy to be coming home with a little extra cash, around three grand, in my pocket.
Then, as luck would have it, or as my dad would say, all the good shit just turned to crap.