Marcus Jackson said he was called "Juke" on account he was born in a juke joint outside Clarksville, Mississippi. The way he told it, his mamma went into labor at the beginning of a twelve-bar blues riff and spit him out before the turnaround. He said he was born in a hurry cuz he had stuff to do. Well, he didn't have much to do now—but die. Like everything else though, he was better at talking about it than actually doing it.
“You motherless cocksucker. You son of a whore, motherfucker,” Juke said. I guess if I had shot him in the head I wouldn’t have had to listen to it, but I figured it would be more fun watching him bleed out. “Well, which is it, Juke? Am I motherless, or is my mother a whore? You gotta make up your mind at some point.” I pressed the heel of my boot into his side just above where the bullet went in. He howled like a coyote. “You’re a backstabbing, bushwhacking, son of a bitch, Titus. I'm gonna rip your head off and shit down your throat.” “You got nobody to blame for this but yourself. We could've got away from that bank quick and easy. But you had to go and shoot that little girl. Now we got the whole county on our tail." “Come here… bend down here so I can get my hands around that pencil neck of yours. I'll snap it off like a chicken!” “All you’re gonna do is die, Juke. You know it, and I know it.” I had seen a lot of people die. Sometimes I was doin' the killing, sometimes it was others. But what always got me was the way that innocent people die so easy. Like they don't mind, like it's as easy for them as breathing. Sure, they whine plenty, if you give them the chance, but when that hammer cocks back they just sorta shut their eyes and whisper a little prayer, then they're gone. It's the sinners, the bad ones, the ones who deserve to die, that die hard. Spit flying off their tongues like venom, cursing the whole world before the darkness sets in. It might have been easier on the ears, but still, I never liked killing anyone that didn't have it coming. Juke Jackson had it coming. I did too I suppose.... I met Juke on March 18th, 1957. I remember the date because it was one year to the day after I arrived at Parchman Farm, the infamous Mississippi State Penitentiary that was run more like a plantation than a prison. Juke was a talker. The way he flapped his gums I thought it was more likely he was born in a whorehouse than a juke joint. There is nothing that likes to talk more than a Mississippi strumpet whore. But I guess his love of talking, and my not liking to say much, evened us out and we became friends. Juke and I roamed the roads together after we got out like a pair of rabid road dogs. We went from place to place, robbing and killing, banks and gas stations mostly. If the people wouldn't give us their money we would take it, their lives too if they tried to stop us. I thought we were unstoppable… until today. "What did ya have to shoot that little girl for, Juke? Don’t you know we was all done for after that. Those townfolk might have chased us a little ways for the money, but the way you shot that girl in the face, in front of all those people... Christ, I almost cried myself. " "I told that lil' hussy to shut up—but she wouldn't stop screaming!" I leapt off the hood of the car and brought the heel of my boot down on Juke's ribs. Stomping his chest over and over until I could hear the bones cracking. "Like that? Huh, you son of a bitch? Was that how she was screaming!" "Aaaah!" Juke wailed in pain. I didn't stop until blood began to spurt out of his mouth. "You bastard… ain't you got any decency in you at all?" I could still see the bullet leaving the barrel of Juke's .38 Special. I never seen nothing like that before, it was as if the earth stopped spinning for a few seconds and everything slowed way down. The bullet hit the girl just above the corner of her right eye next to her nose. The bones in the front of her skull burst apart and ripped the skin from her face as brains shot out the back of her head and painted the bank walls a gruesome, runny gray. We both knew an unspoken line had been crossed and bolted out of that bank so fast we even forgot to grab the money. We jumped in the stolen Chevy parked outside and tore out of that town like we were being chased by the devil himself–and maybe we were. We raced down the back country roads along the river. We might have even had a decent chance of getting away, until the tire blew. The car careened wildly off the road and into an empty field. When the dust cleared, I knew our lives were over. I don't think Juke realized it though. He stepped quickly out of the car and went to the back to grab the jack out of the trunk. I grabbed my .45 and stepped out the other side. I walked up behind him and shot him in the liver—there's no coming back from that—and waited I could see the dust rising from the long line of vehicles coming fast down the road toward us. Juke had his bullet, and soon, I would have my rope. I hoped I would die easy, but I knew better. About the author: John Kojak is a Navy Veteran and Graduate of the University of Texas who grew up in oily little towns around Houston Texas. He still lives there with a nice woman and a mean cat. His poetry and shorties have been published in a variety of book and magazines, mostly of an independent and dubious nature.
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