Corn Tits: Part 1: Rowdy Tales From Rural Kansas, #1

By Krystal Fawn

Guns. Drugs. Fear Boners, Oh My!

 

What happens when a bunch of white-trash good-for-nothings cross paths? Find out in this raunchy American novella set in Rural Kansas. 

 

In Part 1 of Rowdy Tales from Rural Kansas, Corn Tits must choose between her love for meth and her love for her new boyfriend--One-Legged Carl. 

 

Which will be the stronger drug? 

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Go Eat a Carrot
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393913658

Krystal Fawn

Krystal Fawn lives in rural Kansas. 

Book preview

Chapter  1

Dennis Packert aka Dennis

Dennis steps out of his diarrhea-brown pickup truck, crumbs from the bun of the fast-food chili dog he just had for lunch land delicately on the ground. A sparrow on the pasture gate eyes the food, waiting for the strange, tall creature to move so it can peck at the bread. He slams the truck door shut. The driver’s side mirror wiggles back and forth held up by duct tape. He tries re-adjusting it, but pulls too hard, and the mirror falls off into his hands. 

God, damn it! He holds the mirror up to his face; looking at his reflection he frowns, noticing how forty-five has caught up to him real fast; skin lined and cracked like a dried-up pond. You stupid son of bitch, can’t you keep anything together? He sighs and throws the mirror into the back of the cab with all the other things that have fallen apart that he has to fix; a push lawn mower without a tire, an air conditioner that only blows hot air, a power drill missing the battery, a shovel with a broken handle, an air mattress with a hole in it.   

Can anything work right? He tilts his head back and gazes up at the sky even though he knows he won’t get any response from anyone up there, particularly from God. 

He steps toward the gate to unlock it and hears a soft squish under his foot. Shit, Dennis looks down, lifts up his boot, the smell of fresh cow patty hitting his nostrils like a compost pie pulled straight out of mother nature’s oven; steam rising up from it even in the summer heat.  Shit, indeedy, he shakes his head, nose scrunches up, lips pierced together like a hemorrhoidal butthole. 

If he were a richer man he’d get rid of these stinking cows, but for now these fat, dumb bovines help him pay for his land—all 437 acres of it. 

Along with the cows that move from pasture to pasture, he rents out his fields for farming. The farmers rotate wheat, corn, and soy from year to year. He rents out his land to hunters who come through during deer and turkey season. There are also oil leases scattered throughout; if he could he’d turn back time, he’d have all the oil wells shut off the day he bought the land. 

Those oil guys have been a bane to his existence from the start. Not only are they rude entitled assholes, they have left a series of unknown, unplugged wells all over—not just his land—but all of Kansas, probably all over the United States too. The unplugged wells leak salt water, and who knows what else, onto the otherwise clean soil. He’s called everyone he could possibly think of to try to remedy the situation. But, oil guys always win, because oil guys are the ones with the money. Unlike him. No, Dennis is not rolling in dough, thanks to his blood-sucking, money-draining, horse-mouthed former wife, Deborah, aka The Leech. She whipped him so well in the divorce that he’s still paying alimony—or as the lawyers like to call it, maintenance. 

The thought of that monthly maintenance payment makes his blood boil, and those cows standing there only remind him of his shitty financial situation. Three of them are staring right at him with their giant googly eyes, clueless, fuzzy-haired heads chewing cud.

He kicks his shit-covered foot in the air. What?! You think this is funny? Thick brown clumps fly off in every direction. Har. Har. Har. Fucking hilarious, he can feel the heat rising to his head, he wants to scream, but what would be the point? 

The only person who would hear him scream is Randale, aka Randy—the yuppie flower-child whack-job that is currently camping on his land even though it is summer and there is nothing to legally hunt. He comes every summer to prepare for deer season and to chill out in the woods, alone, for a couple of weeks. 

Randale would hear him scream but then he’d probably try to help him by making him do yoga, or some sort of weird om chanting. 

The town folk have started calling Randy ‘The Sheriff.’ They call him that because he’s always trying to solve other people’s problems with his hippie-dippie, ‘overcome your negativity’ bullshit. Dennis can’t believe that Randale got a nickname before he ever did since Randale only stays here a couple of weeks out of the year. Everyone around this rural area seems to have a nickname but him. He probably lucked out where that is concerned, considering what some of them are.  

He likes Randale, aka The Sheriff, alright, but he doesn’t like all his coo-coo, bohemian, alternative-medicine oddball ideas. 

In any case, he’d prefer to scream into the void, if he were going to scream, and not deal with repercussions that would come if The Sheriff heard his outburst of wrath.   

So Dennis does not scream. 

But, he did come all the way over here for a reason. He did not get all the way to this pasture gate for nothing. He’s headed down to find Randale to discuss a different matter—he needs to ask him if he’s been seeing the people coming around that are trying to steal his land. 

It fuels the fire in