BLM: BUCKS LOVIN MASSA

Get comfortable, boah. ‘Cus y’ain’t ne’er ‘gon forget this story.
Now, I ain’t much into this fancy-dancy book stuff, ‘nosuh, h’what interests me in this world of ours is the BUCK, and subtle art of ‘breakin ‘em. As my Pap used to say, “when e’er yer day is open, ye’ll always find a BUCK that needs to be broken.”
Heh heh, the Ole Fella was right about that, ‘yesuh.
I’ve been ‘breakin BUCKS for now on fifty years, and I like to reckon I’m something of an authority on the subject. Ye see, I’ve broken BUCKS all ‘round yonder. I’ve broken them in Ole ‘Virgin-ye, ‘mongst rows and rows of cotton; I’ve broken them in the ‘rollin backcountry of ‘Nawth ‘Jaw-ja; and I’ve broken them h’while watching the frothy channels of the ‘Mississip, that mighty river h’which flows with all the force of a h’white man’s seed into the bussy that is the Gulf of Mexico.
So skilled was I in the art of ‘breakin that h’when I turned twenty, or so, I was inclined to offer my services, for a small fee. So I started ‘puttin advertisements in the circulars.
“BUCKMASTER,” they’d read, “seven inches, will travel.”
Then there came a day h’when the boah from the Post Office delivered me a telegram. Twas all the way from Johnson County ‘Alabam, straight from the office of the Sheriff there. The telegram told a familiar story: A rowdy BUCK, fresh off the boat, upon first ‘seein a blonde-haired blue-eyed h’white woman had gone feral, broken out of his shackles, attempted to menace the woman, but fled for the hills at the sound of a h’whip. His h’whereabouts were unknown, but melon patches and chicken coops kept ‘gettin pillaged e’rey day ‘n night.
So’s I stuffed my carpetbag full of my ‘breakin tools, along with a stick of ‘buttuh, for ‘greasin, and made passage by bicycle o’er to Johnson County. Word spread fast ‘round those parts, and though I might sound a braggart, I wouldn’t be a liar if I told ye that I was greeted in Johnson County by cheering throngs and a ‘marchin band.
“Hurrah!” They cried, “hurrah for the BUCKMASTER!”
They gifted me with fresh wildflowers and h’whiskey, and I felt half-a-King. Yet, though I was, and still am ever-grateful to the people of Johnson County, I couldn’t be bothered by their platitudes, there was ‘breakin to be done. So’s I asked the Sheriff h’where he suspected this BUCK was ‘hidin.
The Sheriff said to me, he says, “I’ll eat my hat if that BUCK ain’t hold up in Ole Lynchtree Forest.”
I told the Sheriff I would depart for the forest with haste.
“Shouldn’t we muster a posse first?” the Sheriff, offering me a see-gar, h’which I was obliged to accept.
“Sheriff,” I says, ‘runnin that see-gar real casuallike under my nose, “perhaps y’ain’t ne’er heard of me, like ye says ye did.”
“Oh, I’ve heard of ye, Mr. Sneed. All the BUCKS from Texas to ‘Muri-lynd frighten their BUCKLETS into behaving h’with tales of Dixie’s Albino Cobra.”
I had a good chuckle at that, ‘yesuh, a good chuckle, indeed.
“Then ye should know, Sheriff, that h’while I do have the utmost respect for ye, yer Deputies, and the work y’all do, I am a solitary BUCKMASTER. ‘Breakin is an artform that requires the utmost concentration.”
“I understand, Mr. Sneed, but let us at least give ye a gun.”
I chuckled again.
“Won’t be necessary, Sheriff.”
That night, Johnson County ne’er been quieter, and I set out on the bicycle into the bowels of the Ole Lynchtree Forest. It was country-dark in there, and soon the briars and brambles were too thick for the bike, so I carried it and waded deeper and deeper on foot, ‘shoulderin and ‘duckin branches as I did. H’when I felt I’d gotten good and deep, I struck up a lantern, propped the bicycle against a tree, and turned away for a moment.
H’When I turned back, there was the BUCK, the bike already cradled in his arms. He ‘musta been ‘round se’em foot, with a double-barrel shotgun for a nose, two slimy red worms for lips, and two tree-trunks for arms.
“Ye best put that back, boah!”
He looked at me then, and his eyes grew as big as saucers before he bolted with all the speed of a spooked deer into the darkness, the bike still in hand. I gave chase, freeing my ‘breakin mallet from the carpetbag as I did. Though it was hard to see, I could hear him ‘tramplin ‘cross twigs and leaves, and I could hear those big nostrils huffing up all the air and mosquitos. Like many frightened BUCKS, he was fast, but as a hunter will tell ye, it’s patience that wins the day, so’s I kept a good pace, ne’er ‘lettin him get too far ahead, ‘til we came upon a gray crag. The BUCK dropped the bike and made to climb it, he pawed and pawed at the face of the mount, but soon realized it was far too steep.
He turned to face me.
“On yer knees, BUCKO!” Says I.
He let out a cry so savage it could scare angels out the clouds and he wound one of them tree-trunk arms of his back, and let fly a meaty fist. I parried, ‘havin become adept at ‘dodgin the wild haymakers h’which BUCKS tend to throw, and returned his swing with one of my own, ‘bringin the ‘breakin mallet down with both hands on his head. There was a satisfying bonk, and the BUCK went cross-eyed, and started a’wobblin hither and thither. I cast the mallet aside and strode over to the BUCK, bold as ye please, and seized him by his h’wooly mane, forcing him to the dirt, rumpside-up.
I dropped my trousers with the air of a man going about some bustled task, but I damn near doubled-over when the BUCK’s trousers dropped. Fifty years I’ve been ‘breakin BUCKS and to this day, and I’m ‘gon say it again, TO THIS DAY! I ain’t ne’er seen a bussy like the one on that Wild BUCK from Johnson County. Imagine two ebon boulders, wide as a dinner table, speckled with delicate beads of perspiration. I placed a hand on each cheek, and had to force myself from bursting as they sank into the soft flesh of him, almost disappearing entirely. I parted those cheeks, just as Moses parted the Red Sea, and there in between found a tangle of black wire under h’which was a tight little pink starfish.
I went to work with my stick of ‘buttuh, ‘makin sure I was well waxed, a courtesy I offered to all BUCKS, no matter how savage. It was only h’when I was about to enter him that the BUCK started ‘comin to. I squatted down low in a froglike position, and mounted him from the posterior, he was a’moanin, and a’mumblin, but then he took to ‘howlin like a wolf when I thrust home in him. And let me tell ye, lil’boah...
He.
Could.
BUCK!
He kicked like a mule, and slithered on his belly ‘cross the dirt like a snake, but I kept my thighs tight around him, the only sound was that of the ‘whinin BUCK and a wet sort of slap, slap, slap.
He was broken by the time I finished. They all break, it isn’t as much a question of if, but rather, h’when.
I hog-tied him afterwards and went down to a nearby crick to wash the sweat, dirt, ‘buttuh, and BUCK-JUICE off me, the last of h’which was already ‘startin to draw flies. I grabbed the bicycle, the mallet, the carpetbag, and lastly the BUCK, and drug it all down yonder to the Sheriff’s office, h’whistlin a jaunty breaking tune all the h’while. H’when the townsfolk came outside, they saw me a’puffin on the see-gar the Sheriff had given me back h’when, the bound BUCK ten paces to my left, like a mackerel in the moonlight: shining, flopping, and stinking. Some of the Deputies could hardly contain their tears as they thanked me for saving that year’s melon crop. H’when the Sheriff went to hand me a hefty wad of bills, I put up a hand.
“Sheriff,” I says between puffs, a coy little glint in my eye, “this time, and this time only, I won’t charge ye. ‘Cus this time ‘round, the chase, and the ‘breakin was priceless.”