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“What kind of fresh hell is this?” mumbled Bull.

Trak looked at him, then at Otto. The shack was sitting on several barrels used as floatation pontoons. The wood looked rotten and cracked, and as the big men stepped onto the covered porch, they worried it would split beneath their weight.

The entire structure was nothing more than an open-air deck floating in a swamp. There were no walls, just a bar if you could call it that. There were a few make-shift tables and chairs pieced together from old wooden pallets and metal and a railing to hopefully keep anyone from falling off and drowning.

Two men and a woman were sitting on old milk crates at a wobbly wooden table. The man behind the bar looked to be close to eighty. He wasn’t shy about showing that he had a shotgun behind him, lying out in the open and ready on the counter.

“Help you, boys? And just so you know I don’t take no plastic. You pay cash or move along to somewhere else,” he said.

“Just lookin’ for somethin’ to drink, and don’t worry, we have cash,” said Otto in his best good old boy accent.

“Well, I got whiskey, beer, or somethin’ stronger if you want it.”

“Beer for me,” said Bull.

“Same,” said Otto. The old man looked at Trak, and he shook his head.

“He ain’t drinkin’?” he asked.

“He’s not much of a drinker. We’re just makin’ our way back through the bayou after a disastrous day of catching fucking nothing. We were fishin’ out in St. Mark’s bayou. Thought we’d come in before the rain hits.”

“That’s smart,” nodded the old man. “Could be a bad one tonight. Weather is always somethin’ fierce in the spring and early summer.”

“Hey, you said you have something stronger than whiskey,” said Bull. “What’s stronger than whiskey?”

“Good homemade shine,” he smiled with jagged teeth. Bull stared at the old man, realizing that he was jaundiced, probably from his own still. His teeth were rotting out of his head, and his skin was showing signs of his kidneys failing.

“You make your own?” grinned Bull.

“Sure do. Best stuff in the swamp,” he laughed. “Ask them. They been drinkin’ it for weeks now.”

“He’s right,” laughed one of the men, showing his lack of teeth as well. His fingernails were turning brown, his skin with a sallow, yellow color to it. “Takes away all your aches and pains.”

“Do you have any I could take home with me? I don’t want to drive through the bayou in a storm after drinking that.”

“That’s probably smart,” smirked the old man. “Yeah. I’ll give you some to take home but just bring back my jar. That’s what costs me. Them damn jars cost a fortune, and nobody brings the lids back. I need the whole thing returned to me.”

“Really?” said Otto. “I would have thought all the equipment and material would be what cost you. Didn’t know that jars were expensive.”

“Well, you gotta compete with all the women wantin’ to do their canning of peaches and tomatoes and such. The equipment I got give to me,” he grinned.

“Someone gave you the equipment? That was pretty nice,” said Bull.

“Ain’t nothin’ nice about it. He gives it to me, I make it, and he takes twenty-five percent. It’s a good deal, but I really want it to be just mine. It will be soon enough. If we can get enough folks talkin’ about it and make it legal, then we’ll all have a piece of the pie. If we don’t spread the word and make it legal, I’m out a lot more than this little bar.”

“I thought it was legal,” said Trak with a straight face. The man stared at him, not saying anything for a moment. There was something about him that felt different.

“Nah, it ain’t legal. Hasn’t been in this state ever, I don’t think. Folks are all worried about dirt and rust and that sort of thing. Mostly, the liquor kills all the bad stuff,” he said nonchalantly.

“Well, being out here doesn’t make you easy to find,” said Otto. “How well can you do when there’s no advertising, no signs, and sure as hell not a lot of people.”

The old man stared at him with a frown on his face, then looked at the three seated at the table.

“You know, I ain’t never thought of that before. Can’t advertise ‘cause it ain’t legal. This used to be just the bottom of a party barge for me and my friends to fish off of. Don’t suppose I ever thought about tellin’ others.” He looked at the three people listening to the conversation. “You ever think about it?”

“Why would we? We get to sit here in the quiet and not be annoyed by stupid people,” said one of the men.

“You’re costin’ me money!” said the old man.

“You said you got the equipment from someone,” said Bull. “Did a salesman come all the way out here? I’m just curious. I don’t live near you but might want to do something like this myself.”

“Naw, he ain’t come out here. Friend of mine, John Brown, he knew someone. Hooked me up real good.” Bull just stared at him, nodding his head. “Don’t ask me how to reach him. He died. Not sure how but heard from some folks that he was dead. Make sure you read all the fine print, though. If you don’t make this fella money, he starts takin’ more and more. I’m about to lose my house and maybe this land too.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Bull.

“Yeah. Me too,” he said sadly. “Let me get you a jar of the shine, and you can take it home with you. Let me know what you think of it but just remember to bring back the jar.”

“I promise,” nodded Otto.

They sat quietly sipping their beer as Trak watched the surrounding swamp area. There was a small, planked walkway that led to a rickety dock. The old man walked back into the brush, and they could hear the sounds of fire and steam. When he returned, he set the jar in front of them and then walked back across the planks again.

Otto opened the jar and thought his eyebrows would be singed off. He smelled the contents and handed it to Bull and Trak, who both shook their heads. Using their ASL, they signed to one another.

“No fucking thank you. I’d like to keep my organs ,” said Bull.

“Even Alvin can smell that from beneath the boards. He said it would destroy the entire bayou if it caught fire .”

“ Your gator knows about explosives now?” frowned Otto.

“Of course. We speak of many things.”

Otto rolled his eyes as the man returned. They paid him for the beers and the moonshine, waving as they took off slowly out of the bayou. Otto stared at the glass canning jar and shook his head.

“I think we do one more and get this shit home before it explodes in the boat.”