Cheap Meat

Well, hey there, family.

If you love old gods of Appalachia and want to help us keep the home fires burning, but maybe aren't comfortable with the monthly commitment, well, you can still support us via the ACAS supporter feature.

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Just click on the link in the show description, and you too can toss your tithe in the collection plate.

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Coach, the energy out there felt different.

What changed for the team today?

It was the new game day scratchers from the California Lottery.

Play is everything.

Those games sent the team's energy through the roof.

Are you saying it was the off-field play that made the difference on the field?

Hey, a little play makes your day, and today it made the game.

That's all for now.

Coach, one more question.

Play the new Los Angeles Chargers, San Francisco 49ers, and Los Angeles Rams Scratchers from the California Lottery.

A little play can make your day.

Please play responsibly.

Must be 18 years or older to purchase play or claim.

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Well, hey there, family.

Normally this is where I do my pre-scripted ad for our season-long sponsor Sucra Bay, but I actually wanted to take this time to thank Sucre Bay and Andrea, who traveled all the way to Asheville, North Carolina for one of our live shows this past October of 2022 and brought with her special samples of the Unknown Rhodes fragrance that's going to be coming from Sucre Bay in the very near future.

Sucre Bay has been a ride or die sponsor with us since the beginning, and we thoroughly appreciate them and all that they've done for us in creating fragrances and magnificent, just family vibes amongst their community and ours.

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Sucra Bay, you are family and we thank you.

Welcome to the dark side.

Y'all smell awesome.

Old Gods of Appalachia is a horror anthology podcast and therefore may contain material not suitable for all audiences.

Seriously, family, this is the Halloween episode.

Brace yourselves.

So, listener discretion is advised.

Cheap Meat

A Tale for the Season

Stonega, Virginia

nineteen seventy-two

It had rained for three days before he came off the mountain, and that left everything shrouded in a soft haziness that made his old bones groan,

and made driving that much more of a chore.

It was like the whole damn world was covered in cobwebs, and that made it harder to perceive the finer details of things, and maybe that was a blessing.

He didn't know.

Nor did he much care right now as he peered through the dirty windshield of his old Chevy pickup truck, glaring out at the patchy asphalt that gleamed like a tarry black tongue as it wound its way down Little Stony Mountain.

The week's rain had beaten most of autumn's splendor off the trees and slicked the twisting roads with a perilous combination of rain, wet leaves, and oil.

It had been a tense drive,

and he didn't look much forward to the return trip either, resenting the whole miserable chore.

He didn't like coming off the mountain at all because that meant people,

and people tended to stare, or ask questions,

or get too close.

And getting too close to someone like him,

well, that was a bad idea.

He'd minded his own business these last several years, seeing how long he could keep his own company, and while it hadn't been easy,

it had brought him a small form of peace.

He'd left Tennessee and come up the mountain to disappear into the coal towns and hollers a goodly while back, and he found that the further he got from his old stomping grounds, the easier it was to just

be.

He didn't feel those feelings that pushed him to take rash and often

inadvisable actions with the same intensity.

He had a little house, such as it was, and a little bit of land around it.

It was far back enough from the road that he didn't get many trespassers or door knockers.

It was just him and the woods and the quiet and

that was just fine.

Most of the time.

As he made the last turn into Stonega, his stomach growled and he sighed.

He didn't didn't eat much these days, but he did require the occasional bite of something, and that meant he had to make the drive down the mountain to do his trading at the Caswalkers on the south end of town.

Dark clouds gathered overhead, threatening another downpour, and a dense fog rove off the pavement as he drove the narrow streets of Stonega, Virginia.

But the weather did not deter the evening's last few trick-or-treaters as they scurried from door to door in in their damp costumes.

Sodden, muddy capes fashioned from Mamon's old bed sheets dragging on the ground behind.

A pint-sized ghost darted into the street in front of him and he slammed on the brakes, laying on the horn in irritation.

Oh, kids these days.

Up ahead, the little grocery store burned with the fluorescent light that cut through the fog like a bad dream.

A tattered orange and black paper banner hung over the double glass doors, exhorting customers to have a happy Halloween.

He hated coming here.

Hell, he hated coming into any town at all anymore.

Everything was so bright.

Every little detail thrown into stark relief.

A man just couldn't hide nothing anymore.

He felt old.

Felt tired.

Like his skin was about to tear off its bones.

He was so wound up.

There wasn't much he could do about the first two, but the last complaint

Well,

he had options.

But those were messy and tiresome as well.

He didn't know if he had the juice in his batteries for such a mess, so kept his head down and kept moving.

He pushed those thoughts away as he leaned into the heavy door with its flat metal bar and dirty glass, slipping into the store with the hood of his Army surplus jacket pulled up over his head.

the toboggan under that was pulled low to his brows

he kept his head down like he said he did not like eye contact he would not abide it not now he just wanted to pick up the two items he needed and be on his way

He grabbed himself a buggy from the cart return to the front of the store and pushed it down the first aisle he came to past the display featuring bags of various fun-size candies already marked down in anticipation of the next holiday barreling down on them like a freight train.

The butcher's counter was located in the back corner of the store.

The butcher was always relegated to the back of the shop.

Nobody in this new age of sterilized, brightly lit supermarkets wanted to see how their meat was cut, how men made their living putting blade

to bone.

They tucked them away in the back,

out of sight, out of mind.

Oh, everybody loved a good steak.

But nobody wanted to think about how it got to the plate.

Not him.

He wanted to know.

Needed to.

Truth be told, he could tell you stroke for stroke how to butcher perk near anything just from memory, but he could stand there all day at the counter and watch the big man in the white apron saw and trim and hack

and slice all day.

The steady, methodical work made him feel

calm,

peaceful even.

Now, the big new payless on the other end of town had all the meat out front wrapped in plastic and tucked into neat, shiny white refrigerator bins, but you couldn't see the work being done.

At the payless, they kept all the muss and fuss entirely behind closed doors or behind two-way glass so they could see you,

but you couldn't see them.

He hated that.

To be seen by people or things he couldn't see back or he couldn't stop from watching him.

Oh.

As much as he hated coming to town, he'd drive just a little bit further out to Cass Walker's because the butchers got to practice their art out in the open as was right and proper.

He stopped to watch as a young man working the counter finish cleaning the knives and the slicer,

neatly packing the tools of his trade away for the night.

He watched with fascination as the blood sloosed from each razor-sharp implement washed away in a swirl of water and life's most vital juices down the big metal sink.

The boy looked up and noticed him.

He did not like to be noticed.

Hey, sir, we're done cutting for the day, the butcher told him.

He gestured to the neatly wrapped packages of fresh meat displayed in the cold case.

Everything you see wrapped up there is fresh, though.

Cut it myself today.

You help yourself.

Oh, uh.

Yes, thank you.

Damn it.

Had he stood there too long?

Did the boy notice the way he was staring at the knives?

Did he see his face?

Would he need to...

No.

No.

The boy was going about his business.

He didn't even give him a second glance.

Of course not.

When we looked more closely, the butcher boy was quite obviously hurrying.

Probably in anticipation of a Halloween party or some other evening entertainment.

Well, that was...

good, wasn't it?

Christ, why was the world so bright now?

A man couldn't even lurk under a bridge without being noticed.

And if you needed to go to town to trade, you had to walk under lights brighter than a godforsaken sun.

It was too much.

And he came from a simpler time.

Oh, boy, and that time was long gone.

Awkwardly, he turned his buggy.

Of course, he got the one with the sticky, squeaky wheel, and he made his way along the counter, peering into the bins at fat T-bones and bloody red New York strips.

His stomach growled again

and his mouth watered.

Not from

hunger.

Not exactly.

He just admired the craftsmanship.

As he gazed down at the spread laid out before him, he noticed how expensive the meat had become compared to how little cash he carried in his wallet.

Now, he could solve that problem easily enough, too, but

it had been a while since he needed to go that route.

Keeping his own company had kept him relatively at peace, but that peace hadn't paid the bills.

He picked up a pack of graying, wafer-thin sirloins marked Reduced for quick sale, manager special, with green stickers plastered over the original price tag.

He could afford these and still pick up the second item on his brief list.

It would run him just about dry, but it couldn't be helped.

Needs must when the devil drives, after all.

He made his way over to the aisle where the tall coolers lined the walls.

The first held your household staples, milk and cheese and eggs, and then as you moved down the aisle, the next featured orange juice, fruit cocktails, and the like.

And the third,

all the way down to the end of the aisle by the door to the restrooms, carefully monitored by an unsmiling manager who glanced out occasionally from behind a glass door marked staff,

was where they kept the beer.

He'd watched folks try to hurry in, grab a six-pack, and scurry back out before somebody from church saw him.

He also knew they'd moved the beer cooler down by the manager's office several years ago, because the local hooligans from down in the bottom had a long history of trying to steal beer long before they reached a legal age.

Shame, shame.

Well, he knew no such shame.

Not caring who saw, he pulled the cooler door open, grabbed the cheapest six-pack he could find.

The beer wasn't for him.

It was for his guest.

He never knew for sure when she might drop by, but tonight of all nights, when the veils between the worlds were thin enough you could slice them with a butter knife, huh,

was a solid possibility.

And she required him to have cold beer ready and waiting, no exceptions.

The cashier barely glanced at him as she rang up his meager purchases.

He could understand that.

He wouldn't want to look at him either.

He knew he appeared old.

Maybe sick.

He didn't care.

Thunder rumbled and a soft rain began to fall as he made his way back to his truck.

He'd just pulled open the driver's side door when it slammed shut, the handle torn from his hand, the skin beneath it tearing as well.

God damn it.

Hey, Papa,

what you got there?

The boys had come out of nowhere.

All three wore cheap Halloween masks, the kind you get at the five and dime,

made out of flimsy plastic with an elastic string to hold them in place on your head.

A wolf man,

a grinning skull, and a vacantly cheerful clown with a bald head and tufts of cherry red hair glued at the temples.

The biggest one, he of the creepy smiling clown mask, had kicked the truck door shut.

His two smaller companions hovered behind him.

Well, look at there, Harley, one of the smaller boys, the one in the wolfman mask, honked in a nasal voice.

Old fellers done bought us a six-pack.

I do love me some Milwaukee's beast.

Man, that shit's nasty.

Skull mask complained.

Couldn't we at least have some Budweiser?

Boys, we don't look gift horses in the mouth, the big one shouted.

Come on now, old timer.

We'll just take these off your hands.

Boy,

if you know what's good for you and your friends, you'll walk away and walk away now, he warned them, peering into the dark, empty sockets of the clown mask at the boy, Harley.

This one must surely be Harley.

Oh, man, Harley, do you hear him?

We better run while we can.

The boys laughed.

The sound crawled up his spine like a bucket of spiders.

Who raised these children?

He didn't think there were many wolves left in Esau County, but he could be wrong.

Hey, Harley snapped, drawing him out of his musings back to the matter at hand.

I ain't got all night here.

Give us a suds and we won't hurt you.

But if you make us get rough,

we can get rough.

To demonstrate his point, Harley Robinette pushed the thin old man so that his body banged against the truck.

He could hear the blow knock the wind from the old timer with a wheeze, and that excited Harley.

He just loved seeing the fear in someone's eyes, hearing the pain in their voice, so he pushed the old geezer again and he bounced off the truck and hit the ground on all fours.

Blood was in the water now, and Harley swung a kick into the old man's ribs and then took his foot to the back of his head.

The kick was hard enough to bounce his face off the pavement, but not hard enough to crack his skull.

There was a dry,

tearing sound.

And then the old man began to laugh.

Harley kicked again, but there was no satisfying grunt of pain from the thin figure who still crouched on all fours, just a steady laughter, gradually rising in volume.

Hey, hey, hey, Harley, stop!

The one in the skull mask stammered, swapping ineffectively at Harley's arm.

You're gonna kill him!

Man, a six-pack ain't worth going to jail over, man.

Come on, quit it!

Harley shrugged him off.

You laughing at me, old man?

You think this is funny?

Nobody fucking laughed at Harley Robinette.

Nobody.

Harley reared back for another kick, but this time the old man moved out of the way, giving Harley's foot a shove.

Harley overbalanced and fell on his ass.

The old man was on his feet in a second.

Faster than a guy his age should have been able to move, faster than Harley could have done it himself, and he loomed over the boy, punching him three times, quicker than breeze lightning.

The first blow fractured the young man's cheekbone, the second broke his nose, and the third shattered his orbital bone.

It all happened in the span of about

two seconds.

The other boys rushed to Harley's aid, but the old man ducked and spun away behind them.

Each of the boys felt a bright, stinging sensation as something whisked up the back of his leg, sharper than a serpent's tooth, slicing through denim and flesh and tendon with ease, and the boys fell to the ground, sobbing.

The B-team dealt with.

The old man returned to his original attacker and grabbed him by the hair, hauling Harley Robinette up off the ground in a display of strength none of them could have matched for all their youth.

As Harley dangled in his grip, choking the toes of his dirty sneakers scuffing the ground, he directed a question to them in a manner that suggested a magician addressing his audience.

You like masks, boys?

Wait till you get a load of mine.

Transferring Harley's weight to one hand, he used the other to push the toboggan back over his head, letting it fall to the street.

His face was a paper-thin mask of old, fragile skin.

Half of it had been torn away when Harley kicked his head into the rough asphalt of the parking lot and bright red muscle oozed.

scarlet blood beneath.

The hand he'd struck the younger man with looked as though it was encased in a shredded tan glove.

The remains bunched around his wrist, his hand

as skinless and bloody as the left side of his face.

Reaching up to his face, he snagged the edge of the wrinkled tattered skin he wore with the fingernail and began to pull.

Harley Robinette pissed his pants and began to sob.

Laughing, he let the old skin drop to the wet pavement.

Well, shit,

boys.

Y'all done made my night.

I guess I should thank you properly.

His free hand dipped into the pocket of the old army surplus jacket and snicked back out, quick as a snake, and in it he held a curved knife.

Its razor-honed edge gleaming.

Harley Robinette's throat parted like the red seal.

The stroke of the knife so fast neither of the other boys even saw the cut, but they saw the result.

And they wailed as blood gushed down from beneath the clown mask Harley still wore, begging and gibbering for mercy.

And Skint Tom

looked down at them both and smiled.

His bad mood had lifted almost entirely.

He had his beer, he had his steak, and

by morning he'd have three brand new outfits.

But three boys, even boys like these,

would be missed, he mused.

The wolves or possums or whoever raised them would be right worried about him for sure.

Might even come looking for him.

My old Harley's mama would miss her little monster.

Tom could almost see her

down on her knees, praying to the heavens for the chance to see her little boy's face just one more time.

Well,

Tom thought as he turned to finish his work here in the parking lot of the Caswalkers,

that can certainly

be arranged.

Well, hey there, family, and happy Halloween, all Hallows Eve, Salhwin, whatever day or night it is you keep this time of year, we wish you the very best of it.

And thank you for choosing to spend some of your spooky time here with us this evening when the veil betwixt the world is oh so thin and y'all could be doing all kinds of fun stuff.

But instead, you come to spend time with the family, and we appreciate that.

Now, I know y'all get excited, as do I, when old skint Tom pops back up from time to time, but I got to come clean with you.

We're sort of serving you leftovers here.

This story, fun fact, was originally meant to be part of our live show in Radford, Virginia.

But when it came down to putting the show together for time and flow, it just kind of didn't have a home.

So we set it aside and we thought y'all might enjoy it as a little fun-size treat here on Halloween.

Hope you did.

I mean, it's a full-size Snickers, let's be real.

But speaking of our live shows, we want to thank all y'all who sold out every night of our little four-show tour.

From the shows in my current hometown of Asheville with the Masonic Temple, to the over 700 folks who turned out at Union High School to welcome us home in Big Stone Gap in Wise County, to that packed house at Radford University just the other night.

We appreciate each and every one of you.

We got to meet family we'd only known on the interwebs and to reconnect with folks back home and we hadn't seen in some cases like in 25 years.

We made a ton of new friends and we got to share the stage with the old gods musical family like Keena Graham, Miguel Olesguaga, Jacob Moore, John Charles Dwyer, and of course our boon companion, the man who's been with us since day one, Brother Land and Blood, drove 16 hours one way to play those live shows, play two songs, and drove 16 hours and said he would do it again.

And we fully, fully believe him.

Now in Radford, y'all got to spend time with our cousin Jordan Shively of Dread Singles Fame.

And in Asheville and Wise County, y'all got Mr.

Yuri Lowenthal, Corey Ryan Forrester, and our special guest for all the dates, Mr.

Cecil Baldwin himself.

Thank you to all those people.

Holy, I still can't believe that happened.

It was one of the most exciting and terrifying things we've ever done.

And we want to thank all of you that came out to share that very special fellowship with us.

Thank you.

Thank you, family.

And now for some good news, bad news.

Good news is, you may have heard, Old Gods of Appalachia has been nominated for a World Fantasy Award in the special works category.

And we will be in New Orleans for that convention in early November.

Bad news is, due to travel complications and stuff being what it is with airlines, we will not be able to return for Act 4 of Season 3 until November 17th.

It's a slight delay, just a week, but it's one that will be well worth it.

We promise you, family.

Promise, promise, promise.

Trust me on this.

And I'm going to provide you with some entertainment while we're out as well.

Stay tuned for that.

And now it is my solemn duty to remind you that Old Gods of Appalachia is a production of Deep Nerd Media distributed by Rusty Quill.

Today's story was written by Steve Schell and Cam Collins and performed by Steve Schell.

Our intro music this time around, of course, is by Brother Land and Blood, and our outro music is by Lonely Wyatt and Rachel Brooke.

Talk to you soon, family.

Talk to your real soon.

Coach, the energy out there felt different.

What changed for the team today?

It was the new game, Day Scratchers from the California Lottery.

Play is everything.

Those games sent the team's energy through the roof.

Are you saying it was the off-field play that made the difference on the field?

Hey, a little play makes your day, and today it made the game.

That's all for now.

Coach, one more question.

Play the new Los Angeles Chargers, San Francisco 49ers, and Los Angeles Rams Scratchers from the California Lottery.

A little play can make your day.

Please play responsibly must be 18 years or older to purchase, play, or claim.